Pointillist
by Doc0517
Summary: Just completed this second book. Classic POI, with all the people we love from the show, and a case that moves across the Pond, to Europe, Asia, and more. Lots of Reese and his mayhem twin, Shaw. Harold and Root team up with some familiar characters from the show to take down Samaritan. A deep dish of delicious. Rated T for all the right reasons... More coming soon, in Book 3: P2.
1. Chapter 1

**Book 2: Pointillist**

 **Introduction**

Author's preface:

The culmination of the search for Greer in the hospital, Part 2.

A note about this installment. I thought I was going to get through 2016 and a little bit into 2017 with Pointillist. Boy, was I wrong! I've been having so much fun writing this story that I only got to December of 2014. So, if you can bear with me, rather than creating a huge, unwieldy, scary-long Pointillist book, I've decided to end it today, and begin right where we're leaving off, in a new book, P2, for Pointillist 2. I love these characters, and I hope you enjoy reading about the adventures they get into together. A lot has gone on already, but there is so much more to face, together. Let's keep going...

May 29, 2018

Original author's preface:

In Book 2: Pointillist, Team Machine has returned from Washington D.C. after rescuing Grace from two months of captivity and brainwashing at the hands of Greer. Harold Finch knows all too well the soul-stealing capabilities of Greer's methods and suffers the pain of Grace's physical and emotional trauma. Just as he was about to reveal to her that he was still alive, and had not perished in the ferry boat explosion, he finds that Grace has been manipulated by Greer. The image of Grace was used as a way to mislead and induce cooperation from Harold during his captivity; and in a crushing blow to Harold, he finds that Greer then attacked Grace using Harold's image – and now she can no longer bear to see his face.

The Team has planted Leon Tao, a former member of their D.C. Team, inside Samaritan's organization with the hope of gaining key intelligence on Greer's plans and vulnerabilities. But how far can he really be trusted? What is Greer planning? Can Samaritan be stopped without a bloodbath?

Book 2 takes up the events following Carter's death at the end of 2013, and advances the story line of Team Machine into early 2017. Each character moves through time on his own path, illuminated and advanced in small vignettes. Like paint arranged on the canvas as small dots when seen at close range, Pointillist allows the final image to fully emerge only when viewed from a distance.

As in Book 1, _Saving the Saviors_ , some of the familiar characters from past shows have been brought back in their new roles. New characters introduced in Book 1 re-appear briefly in Book 2. But, mostly, we are treated to more about the characters we loved from Person of Interest. We share their losses, their triumphs, their humanity...

In continuing deep love and appreciation for the ground-breaking work of the original show, and for all of those who made it so unique. Let's keep going.

October, 2017

* * *

 **Table of Contents**

* * *

 **Part 1** **:**

 **Chapter 1: Reset; Bittersweet; Follow Orders**

 **Chapter 2: Always; Million Reasons**

 **Chapter 3: Moroccan; Good Cop; Good People  
**

 **Chapter 4: The Right Thing; Shaolin  
**

 **Part 2 :**

 **Chapter 5: Not what she expected(rated T for violence)  
**

 **Chapter 6: Intention**

 **Chapter 7: The Picture**

 **Chapter 8: _Golden Vision_ ; "I've got this"**

 **Chapter 9: Crates; _Famiglia_ ; Time For Ourselves**

 **Chapter 10: Enough; Losing Ground; Long Way To New York**

 **Chapter 11: Half the perfect world; "She's good, Root"; A flight away; Sketch(rated T)  
**

 **Chapter 12: Closer to madness; So many possibilities  
**

 **Part 3 :**

 **Chapter 13: Turning point; Unconditional love**

 **Chapter 14: Gelila**

 **Chapter 15: Beautiful work**

 **Chapter 16: No footprint; whipped cream on top; Nerd Convention**

 **Chapter 17: Opening salvo; worth the wait**

 **Chapter 18: Wouldn't see them coming; Genes work**

 **Chapter 19: Rattled; Big family; Why?(rated T)  
**

 **Chapter 20: tapping was louder (rated T); 'til morning (rated T); his say-so; wrong man**

 **Chapter 21: "Let's go."; good advice**

 **Chapter 22: the toll; blindspot; the road unchosen  
**

 **Part 4 :**

 **Chapter 23: something for pain(rated T); Hired guns**

 **Chapter 24: Someone she would fight for; wisdom and restraint**

 **Chapter 25: blue blue**

 **Chapter 26: the internet of things attack**

 **Chapter 27: trouble; white tea**

 **Chapter 28: just the cat; worthy adversary**

 **Chapter 29: a life worth keeping; a long shot**

 **Chapter 30: a debt; blue lights flashing; bagged and tagged**

 **Chapter 31: iron hands; back on track; look to the left**

 **Chapter 32: He was not alone**

 **Chapter 33: out in a hurry (rated T)**

 **Chapter 34: taser; "Don't bother"; "Stay"**

 **Chapter 35: "Trust me." (rated T)**

 **Chapter 36: solace (rated T); safest hiding place (rated T)**

 **Part 5 :**

 **Chapter 37: scrape (rated T); world without oil (rated T); _need u_ (rated T)**

 **Chapter 38: "no one saw this coming"; _You are blessed today;_ "they're in trouble"**

 **Chapter 39: "just in case"; special place inside; "does it look familiar?"**

 **Chapter 40: breathless (rated T); _critical situation;_ a little first aid (rated T); here, for Marco**

 **Chapter 41: ready?; say it first**

 **Chapter 42: like a club (rated T); it wasn't there**

 **Chapter 43: no Martine; _working..._ (rated T); Not good. (rated T)**

 **Chapter 44: "You, and what army?" (rated T); test out a theory; an agenda; "Do it!" (rated T)**

 **Chapter 45: before tonight (rated T); sparks from the ceiling (rated T)**

 **Chapter 46: "I'll never leave you"; "let's not trash the place -"**

* * *

 **Works cited**

* * *

If you wish to know more about the music cited in this story, for your own journey, please enjoy:

Chapter 1: In Reset: Try listening to this piece while you start reading this new story. One of my favorite guitarists, from Canada:

Cook, Jesse. "Cancion Triste (With Ofra Harnoy)." _Icon,_ Universal Music Canada, 2015.

Chapter 2: In Always: Harold is walking and hears this piece playing while he recalls a special memory from his past. Wonderful piece:

Cook, Jesse. "Ne Me Quitte Pas." _The Blue Guitar Sessions,_ Coach House Music, 2012.

Chapter 4: In Shaolin: A figure appears - from the rural, windswept steppes of China:

Evenson, Dean and Li Xiangting. "Morning Mist." _Tao of Healing_ , Soundings of the Planet, 2000.

Chapter 6: In Intention: Jules meets again with Harold, who is deeply wounded. She helps him understand Healing Intention. This music was created by musicians who hold a healing intention as they perform. On this Christmas Eve, may you find peace and healing...

Evenson, Dean. _Healing Sanctuary,_ Soundings of the Planet, 2002.

Chapter 7: In The Picture: Wait until you get down to the part that starts with Reese hearing music, and then please listen to this beautiful, haunting piece from Jesse Cook (again). Now, after writing this Chapter to this music, I can't listen to it without thinking of Reese and Carter like this. Rated "T" for Tissues. You might need them, too, as you listen to:

Cook, Jesse. "Rain." _Frontiers_ , Coach House Music, 2008.

Chapter 9: In _Famiglia_ : Shaw is swept up in a new case with international proportions. Her new POI learns that she saved his life tonight and he is - thankful:

Dion, Celine. " _J'Attendais_." _The French Album,_ Sony, 1995. Followed by a second beautiful piece:

Bocelli, Andrea. "The Prayer." _Vivere_ , with Celine Dion, Sugar Music, 2007.

Chapter 11: In Half the perfect world: Shaw and Marco have taken the next step and the song by the same name couldn't be more perfect:

Peyroux, Madeleine. "Half the Perfect World." _Half the Perfect World_ , Rounder/Universal, 2006.

Chapter 11: In A flight away: Grace is on the move. Listen to the sound of this song to watch her go:

Cook, Jesse. " _El Cri._ " _Frontiers_ , Coach House Music, 2008.

Chapter 11: In Sketch: Reese remembers a harrowing scene from his past. This song reminds us that "nothing comes from violence, and nothing ever will" :

Cook, Jesse. "Fragile." _Icon_ , with Holy Cole, Universal Music Canada, 2015.

Chapter 12: In Closer to madness, Reese and Finch are on a mission in Italy. The pace is changing.

Cook, Jesse."Closer to Madness," _Icon_ , Universal Music Canada, 2015.

Chapter 22: In the toll: Shaw reflects on her experiences with her two partners in crime, and sees the inevitability of love lost.

Cook, Jesse."The Toll," _Beyond Borders_ , eOne Music Canada, 2017.

Chapter 22: in the road unchosen: Reese tastes the sweetness, and the pain, of the road unchosen. You might need tissues handy for this one. So beautiful...

Cook, Jesse. "Unchosen," _Beyond Borders_ , eOne Music Canada, 2017.

Chapter 24: in Someone she would fight for: Root puts her cards on the table, with Shaw. Enjoy the incredible voice of this gifted singer as you read.

Wilson, Cassandra. "Until," _New Moon Daughter_ , Blue Note, 1995.

Chapter 28: in just the cat: Grace watches little Ali, victim of war in his homeland of Syria, making progress after so much heartache. Listen to the sounds he remembers, in this haunting piece.

Cook, Jesse. "Wisdom Of A Thousand Years," _Beyond Borders_ , eOne music Canada, 2017.

Chapter 35: in "Trust me" Reese finds something he was not expecting. And the trust to let it begin... Please listen to this voice you won't forget, starting where the door is closing behind them.

Wilson, Cassandra. "Love is Blindness," _New Moon Daughter_ , Blue Note, 1995.

Chapter 36: in safest hiding place, Reese finds a moment of peace. Hear it in this beautiful piece:

Sade. "The Safest Place," _Soldier of Love_ , Sony Records, 2010.

Chapter 41: in ready?: Shaw has the opportunity to imagine how things could be. This beautiful piece is the perfect music behind it. I love listening to it. So beautiful. Look for the line across the page to queue the music.

Arie, India. "Ready for Love," _Acoustic Soul_ , Universal Motown Records, 2001.

Chapter 41: in say it first: Root has her chance to make her wishes known. Listen to the soulful sounds of someone who's been there, too. Almost a little heartbreaking. Look for the line across the page to queue the music.

Smith, Sam. "Say it First," _The Thrill of It All_ , Capitol Records, 2017.

Chapter 45: For this piece I am indebted to French reader and friend, Edith Boudin, who recommended this beautiful song. If you look on You-tube, especially at the Frenchrescue upload version (French and English subtitles), you will find this much-loved song. Leave it to the French to have such a lovely sentiment. Once you've heard it, you'll be humming it all day. Merci, Edith...

Dassin, Joe. " _Et si tu n'existais pas_ " ("And if you did not exist").

Chapter 46: in this last chapter, please listen to this great rendition by Sting. Just about sums it all up, I think. Thanks for reading and listening!

Sting. "The Book Of My Life (with Anoushka Shankar)," _Sacred Love_ , A&M, 2003.

Part 1

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Reset; Bittersweet; Follow Orders**

* * *

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

Three o'clock in the morning. Dark. Wet on the streets. Their black SUV splashed through puddles left behind from rain chasing them north all night. They had driven in and out of the fringes of it as it swept in from the west, but then it had passed over them and washed through Manhattan ahead of them, leaving everything glistening and dripping in their headlights.

After the rain, dense fog had rolled in, thick like a cloak around them, snarling traffic up ahead on the bridges. They could see flashing lights through the fog, and then dented cars and broken glass scattered across two lanes. The underside of an SUV, flipped over on its side on the bridge, faced into long lines of on-coming traffic, forcing them down to one lane squeezing by.

Burly men in wet yellow slickers moved through the fog, pushing debris off to one side, while stern-faced policemen interviewed the shaken drivers on the bridge, jotting notes, glancing up at traffic crawling by. Reese kept his eyes ahead - nothing to draw attention to them or their car. And once they passed the wreck, the lanes opened up again, traffic sped up, and they made good time the rest of the way in.

Reese turned off the highway and wound through back streets lined with shuttered businesses. At this hour, no one was about. He turned into a narrow street just wide enough for two cars to pass, with low, wet, darkened buildings on both sides. Lines of old warehouses with weak lights hanging off the fronts, and blacked-out windows wet with fog, crowded together at the curbs. It was almost claustrophobic in there, and everyone still awake in the car sat forward, silent, more vigilant, wary now as they rolled down the fogged-in, narrow street.

In the rear view mirror, he could see Shaw, blank-faced, watching out through the windows just like him. Some bruising from the punch she took for him at the hide-out had spread across her eye onto her cheek, and he could see a little bit of the white shining as her eyes tracked side to side. Next to her, Root was still asleep, her head tipped down onto Shaw's shoulder and her face marred, too, by bruising from the gash above her eye. Harold was silent in the passenger seat, leaning forward. It was so quiet in the car, eerie, rolling soundlessly in the fog, like a ship.

For Reese, it reminded him of driving through deserted streets at night with his men back in Afghanistan. He caught himself scanning the roof-lines, obscured in the fog, for snipers, and for anything at street level that could hide an IED. He shook his head – thirteen years and he still had flashbacks from those days in the Rangers. Certain times of day, when the light was just right, or the setting was a certain way, it made his mind jump back there as if he were there, for real, in Afghanistan with them.

Life on the edge like that, drawn out for months at a time, had left its marks. Thirteen years and he was still uneasy in certain places, haunted by things he had seen there, things he had done there; and with more - much worse - to come, later, in black ops for the CIA.

It never really leaves you, he said to himself. You can't just walk away, just let it go. He thought it would fade with time if he left it alone, didn't think about it. But, memories like those cling to you – like acrid smoke; in your hair, in your eyes and nose, on your skin, and in your clothes. Leave him? No, not for Reese. They were part of that wound that wouldn't heal.

He looked forward, eyes on the road again. A hundred meters further up it would widen a bit. Ahead was a clean, well-lit warehouse just hidden from view. That one was theirs. Reese brightened for a moment, but then something inside him jumped up, just like in the old days, said not to drop his guard, now that they were so close. Don't get sloppy, it said. He looked up at the roof-lines once again, and then down on street level again, but nothing seemed out of place. Even so, the knot in his shoulders was still there. He'd be happy when they were done here, and back in one of the safe-houses where they could finally relax, and catch some sleep. They'd just be a few minutes unloading the weapons into the warehouse, and then they'd be on their way. It was too risky, driving around Manhattan with boxes of guns and ammo in the back. If they were stopped...

Reese thought about how Fusco had driven the boxes down to them in Bethesda where the rest of the Team had already flown in. It was just a few days back, when they were all preparing to breach the ranch in Virginia where they'd tracked Greer. Rescuing Grace had been the first priority, but the Team had no idea where Greer was holding her; if they didn't get her out before they attacked Greer, they'd risk losing the chance to find her. But things had gone sideways at the hotel, and they'd had to improvise. Reese frowned at the thought of all their plans for Greer, thwarted for now.

 _At the hotel where the two teams had come together to share intel and settle details, one of them was missing. Reese, Shaw and Root were there from the New York Team, with three of them from the D.C. Team: Logan Pierce, Harper Rose, and Joey Durbin; but Leon was missing. Reese knew something was wrong - he could feel it. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling. But before he could act, Leon showed up at the door. Reese could see he wasn't right. Leon had walked in, like everything was fine, gave no warning to them at all. It was Root who'd picked up on something Leon said, off-handed, when he got there. He back-peddled, tried to throw her off, minimize his error, but she was like a pitbull, threatening him like he was one of Greer's men. Maybe the Machine had whispered something in her ear, too. Whatever it was, she had sensed right away that they were under attack. Root had been the one to keep them alive._

 _Three teams of Samaritan's soldiers were working their way up to them inside the hotel, tipped off by Leon. Harold had seen them, too, from another room in the hotel, where he'd tapped into the hotel cameras. With the same cameras, he'd guided them through corridors and down empty stairwells, past the soldiers, to safety. But Harold was trapped, left behind in the hotel. Reese had gone in to find him, once the rest were clear, to hold off Samaritan's men until the Team could go back for them._

 _In the fight, they'd taken two of Greer's soldiers alive and brought them back to their hide-out with them. Leon's story was that Greer's men had caught him when he was on his way to the hotel, and forced him to give up the Team's location. They weren't convinced; they put Leon in with the two soldiers to see what they'd do. And Shaw had gone in, too, to get what she could from them, by whatever means necessary, until Harold stopped her. No more bloodshed, he said.  
_

 _For two days the Team hid in the empty building a few miles from the hotel. And that was when they found Grace. They were surveilling a few buildings where they knew Greer had surfaced in the last two months. They were looking for any sign that would show them where Greer was keeping her. And then Harold and Logan saw an SUV roll out in a hurry from one of the buildings. The Team took the chance; it looked like Greer might be moving her to a new location, ahead of the Team. They went after it and got her out, but it was messy. Greer's people holding Grace - all dead - in the shoot-out on the highway. Repercussions from Greer would be swift, they thought, and raced back to the hideout. Grace was in a bad way. Drugged by Greer's soldiers for the transport, she was out of it for hours. And then, as she was starting to respond, it was clear to Harold and the rest of the Team what Greer had done. He had turned her, in two grueling months of tactical re-programming, had turned her away from the one person she had cared about the most. Grace wouldn't look at Harold's face._

Reese bent forward, twisting one fist into the palm of his other hand. He was remembering the two of them in the darkened room, Grace pulling away from Harold, who was tending to her as she woke. He had decided to face her, tell her the truth - that he was still alive after the ferry boat bombing. He had let her believe that he was killed so he could protect her. But it hadn't kept her safe from Greer. He had found her, found a way to use her, like a guided-missile, straight into Harold. It was hard to see them like that, together. Harold was crushed, wrecked at the sight of her covered in bloodstains, rope scars on her wrists, turning away from him when he tried to ease her pain. It was just what Greer had planned - a coup, from an adversary who had no boundaries. Reese closed his eyes, recalling Harold's face with his eyes on Grace. The memory of that look had burned into Reese that night.

There was a tension building inside him, and a heat in his chest. There would be nothing that could keep Reese from doing what he did best, when they found Greer.

The Team had had to decide quickly what they were going to do. It was Reese's idea to use Leon. Leon was claiming that he was the victim here, that he was still one of them. Reese would put him to the test - by sending him inside Greer's organization, their own guided-missile. Reese would expect him to gather intel for them - and maybe deliver a blow from inside, to take down Greer and Samaritan itself. They would find out if Leon was one of them or not. But, either way, he had already made himself expendable. No one was going to shed any tears for him, if he didn't make it out.

They made it look like Leon had been targeted for betraying them. Just like Greer's soldiers, Leon would have nothing to lose. Escape was the only option. Reese told Leon what he expected him to do, if he wanted to stay alive: Leon was supposed to make a break for it, free the soldiers, and head back with them to Greer's location. It would be the best option, but the most dangerous for the Team. Shaw had been right. It was a risky thing to do, to trust Leon with a gun like that. They were all sure that he could handle the deception part just fine. Every time they had run into him in the past, there was always some kind of a scam, some deception going on. But guns, no. No one had ever seen him handle one. Leon was a thief, a tech-y. Leon ran from fights.

But, there he was, a gun in his hand, pointed at Reese. He had fired at point-blank range. Reese went down, face-down on the floor, the bullet stopped by his vest. It was like a hammer-blow to his chest when it hit, and Reese felt, and heard, the rib break under the round. It took his breath away. On the ground, he hadn't even noticed that Leon stepped over him and was pointing the gun down at his head.

That hadn't been part of the plan. Leon was off-script, and no one knew exactly what he was going to do next. So, Shaw had jumped in, had knocked the gun away, thinking Leon was going to shoot Reese again. She clipped Leon with a clean left hook, before one of Greer's soldiers blindsided her. Shaw went down, too, on the floor next to Reese. Leon freed the men, and the three escaped from the hide-out, heading to Virginia.

With Grace in bad shape, and everyone on Reese's team hurting, they decided to head back to New York. It was time to lay low in one of the safe-houses while they patched themselves up and made a new plan. Reese would keep up the pressure on Leon. Fusco would team up with Harper Rose from the D.C. Team as though she were his partner in the NYPD. They would work with Grace together, debriefing her, letting her believe she was a witness, and a victim, of the crime they were working. They would move Grace to another safe-house there, in New York. And, in time, the two would start spinning the story that would help Grace understand what had happened to her in Italy, in Bethesda - and why. It was important to Harold. He owed her that, and more...

Reese and his Team climbed back into the SUV, the weapons boxes safely stowed inside the warehouse. All had gone well so far on the trip back from Bethesda. Now, off to the safe-house for some rest. Time to reset.

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

"Miss Grace, Miss Harper, please. I'll take you there myself. You can walk around if you like, and then I can bring you back, whenever you're ready."

Harper was grateful for Winston, their driver. He had been such a steady force since their return from Bethesda. Something about his gentle way had put Grace at ease. She enjoyed hearing his stories about home, back in St. Lucia; about his travel and time spent in England and France; and then his move to the U.S. He had grown children of his own now, and six grandchildren. Pictures of them were never far from view.

Winston had made himself available to drive them whenever and wherever they wanted to go. He seemed to know that Grace was in a fragile state, and he treated her with something approaching tenderness. Such a contradiction. Winston looked like a prize-fighter – big, thick neck, arms that barely fit into his black suit coat, and solid legs that carried his frame swiftly on the soccer field with his grand kids. He sang in his choir at church, and so, frequently, they could hear him humming those tunes as he drove them through the streets of Manhattan.

Grace listened to Winston humming one now in the front seat of the Town Car. She and Harper had decided to go walk past the apartment Grace had lived in before she moved overseas to Italy. They were taking a little break from the questioning. It was hard work for her to try and answer all their questions about her time in captivity in Bethesda. Harper and her partner, Detective Lionel Fusco, from the NYPD, were trying to track down an international crime ring, and they had told her that she had become one of the ring's victims, had been abducted from Rome where she lived until two months ago. She was trying her best to help them. Grace was still stunned about it all. Why would anyone want to kidnap her? She taught art to kids who had come to Italy on rafts, in over-crowded boats, on anything that floated, to escape war in their own countries. She missed them. She missed her life there. How could this have happened? And why?

As she thought back to Rome with the refugee children, some of their faces came to mind. It stopped her, made her thoughts freeze. She put her hand up toward her chest, over her heart. There was a sudden gripping sensation there, and a sense of sadness like a giant wave breaking on the shore. When she looked up, she saw Winston's eyes in the rear-view mirror, watching her in her moment of pain. She looked away, through the glass, as though at the passing view. She noticed he stopped humming his tune, his face more serious now when she peeked at him again in the mirror. She felt a sting of guilt – she hadn't wanted anyone to feel pain on her account.

"Here we are, Ladies," Winston said a moment later, pulling slowly over to the curb. He stepped out and went around to their door, curb-side, and opened it for them. Reaching out, he held Harper's hand as she swung herself up from the seat, tall, leggy, and graceful, like a dancer; and then he reached for Grace's, when she slid herself over to the open door. Her hand looked so small on his forearm as he offered it. She was still a little wobbly from her time in captivity. Winston felt it, and gently lifted her from the seat. Such a good man, Grace thought with a small smile.

And then she caught sight of the front facade of her old apartment. Her breath caught, and she felt suddenly hollow in her stomach. The steps up from the sidewalk, the door, the front windows overlooking the boulevard – it all looked the same. But it was hard to see it this way. Her hand came up to her mouth, the back of it pressing against her lips.

"Miss Grace?" Winston said, putting his free hand over the top of her hand on his forearm. She didn't say anything at first. Winston could see the look in her eyes. Memories were flooding her and he could see the slight closing of her eyes as her thoughts took her back.

 **Manhattan, 2001**

It was moving day, and she was excited to finally get back into the apartment after such a long wait. The case had been tied up in court for so long, even though everything seemed crystal clear to her. The apartment and the bulk of the estate from her only living relatives had been left to her. Her Aunt Cora and Uncle Max, childless for all of their married lives, had taken her in like their own child, providing a life for her that she could never have imagined. Grace had grown up in Ohio, daughter of two schoolteachers who had given her a carefree childhood, filled with the attention and love that any child could wish for. But it was all cut too short. Her parents had died in a horrific traffic accident when she was only ten. Their car had crushed in around the three of them, collapsing the space where her parents had been seated just moments before. Her own seat had saved her from the impact, unscathed except from flying glass. She was mute for months, shut down and unable to face the world without her parents, until her Aunt and Uncle brought her to live with them in Manhattan.

Their apartment looked out on a boulevard where life never stopped. There was always something happening out there, and little by little, it began to catch her, pull her into it, until one day she spoke again. It just happened. It didn't seem momentous to her. She had seen a girl out there on the boulevard, like always, and just said out loud, "I wonder what her name is."

And that had been the beginning. It all began to tumble out after that. Max and Cora had tears in their eyes, and smiles, as Grace told them that she would like to go outside and play with that girl on the boulevard. The girls were inseparable after that, like twins. The people in the neighborhood thought they were sisters, and Grace learned to be happy again. The two best friends loved all the same things – reading, listening to music, going to the beach where they would fly a paper kite high up in the on-shore breeze, or bury her willing Uncle Max up to his neck in a pile of sand, before he wiggled himself out of it and chased them into the surf, giggling that way when life just can't be any better. Best of all, the two girls both loved to paint, and they spent hours drawing and painting together on the long summer days.

They graduated from high school together, went to the same college together, competed against each other (but not too hard) in the department's art competitions each year. At the end of college, they both had portfolios bulging with their work and went off to find jobs. Reality check. An art degree didn't get you very far in those days. They commiserated. They buoyed each other up after yet another rejection letter. They schemed and planned. And then, in the middle of everything, her biggest fan, her steadiest rock, her funniest, sweetest, most admirable loving uncle, Max, left them. One day he was there, and then he was not. He was taken from them on a cold February day. On his way to work, he had stopped to sit down on a bench at a bus stop. The cold air had stung him in his lungs and made his chest hurt. It was suddenly hard to catch his breath and he sat down on the bench to rest.

Winston could see the small changes in Grace's expression as she recalled this memory. Bittersweet memories. He patted her hand on his arm, and she shook herself out of it, looking into his comforting eyes. She stepped forward, with determination, and looked around her for Harper. Winston launched her gently toward Harper, and watched the two walk on together on the sidewalk with the boulevard on one side and the apartment on the other. He watched their heads turn toward the apartment door, and he saw Grace pointing to something and Harper shaking her head. They stopped for a moment, arm in arm, facing the front of the apartment for a few moments, and then they turned away and walked on, with the boulevard at their side.

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

Dishes were clattering at a nearby table, as a young, dark-haired man in a white short-sleeved shirt and black pants slid the remains of a large group's lunch dishes into grey plastic dishpans. Plates and silverware, coffee cups and saucers, glasses still full of ice water, and bread baskets tumbled against one another off the edge of the table, and down into pan after pan. Miraculously, nothing shattered, but the sound was deafening at his own table nearby. Reese closed his eyes and shook his head silently. The noise was hard to take. He was more cranky today than usual. He hadn't been sleeping well lately, and it must have started to show; he'd been getting looks from the rest of them on the team when he failed to hide his irritation. Maybe tonight he'd try to get to sleep earlier.

He looked at his watch again. Leon was late, again. Reese was meeting him to see what Leon had been able to learn in the weeks since he had "escaped" from them, in Bethesda. The plan had worked well enough to convince Greer's soldiers that Leon had sold the Team out, had run for it. Leon had gone with Greer's soldiers back to the ranch in Virginia, but that's all that Reese knew so far. He wanted to keep up the pressure on Leon, make him remember that he was on a short leash, that the Team expected actionable intel about Greer, about Samaritan. If he didn't come through today with something of value, Reese was going to lean on him harder. It would be easy to let himself get some payback. He reached inside his suit jacket to the spot where Leon's bullet had broken his rib when he had fired at Reese's chest, into the vest. They had planned it that way, so the soldiers would see Leon shoot Reese. And Leon had even ad lib-ed some other things, things they weren't expecting, to make the soldiers believe he was running. Leon was still alive, so it looked like Greer had believed the story, so far.

Reese held his head in his hand as the busboy at the next table cleared another place setting into another gray dishpan, and the dishes clattered together yet again. Reese was sorely tempted to stand up and grab the kid, kick him in the seat of his pants, and down the aisle away from him. Better that than to pull his gun and threaten him right in front of everyone in the place – although that would feel infinitely more satisfying for sure. Wow, he definitely needed a good night's sleep. He was getting a little too aggressive, even for New York.

When he opened his eyes again, Leon was just sliding into the booth across from him. He looked anxious and sweaty. Reese was pleased. He wanted Leon to think that something could happen to him at any moment if he didn't come with something of value to them.

"You're late, Leon," Reese said in his whisper voice. Leon cringed. That voice. He hated that voice. He was certain Reese was doing that on purpose just to make him nervous.

"They're watching every move I make. I have to be careful," Leon said in a low pressured voice, his eyes lowered from Reese's steady gaze.

"I need to know what Greer is planning, where he's going next, and I need to know if you planted the device." Reese was side-tracked for a moment with a voice in his ear.

"Mr. Reese, I am testing for signal from the device, and it has _not_ been fully activated. If he tells you yes, he is lying," Harold said to him in his earpiece.

"I brought some schematics. I'm not sure what they're for yet. Greer plays it close to the vest, but he has mentioned power grids a few times. Maybe something to do with that." Leon reached over, lifting Reese's water glass, and dropped a thumb drive from his palm onto the table in front of Reese. He nodded his head down toward the drive, and Reese picked it up. Leon emptied the glass and put it back down on the table.

"And the rest?" Reese said in his whisper voice.

"I haven't placed the device yet – I have the feeling we're moving soon, but Greer hasn't said where yet. The ranch is just a minor hub in their system. I would wait until we get to a bigger one."

"That's not for you to decide, Leon. Follow orders." Reese stared into Leon's eyes. For a second, that steely look Reese had seen in the hide-out, before Leon shot him, was there; but then it was gone, and Leon lowered his eyes.

There was something not quite right. He couldn't put his finger on it. He thought about Carter – _wish you were here, Carter; you're better at this than I am. He'd be grovelling by now if you were here._ Reese was really good at intimidation. But the fancy stuff, like Carter used to do as an interrogator back in Iraq – not in his tool bag.

He looked up at Leon and leaned back in the booth. Leon was slippery. He had to keep his eyes on him and question everything he did or said. But, Leon was going to help them, or die trying, Reese said to himself.

"Anything more you came to tell me, Leon?" Reese held his gaze steady on him, and kept his voice a whisper. Leon shook his head, no. He was trying to hide his hands, which were shaking a little, Reese noticed.

"We'll meet again next week. I'll let you know when, and where." Leon slid quickly away from him, to the end of the bench, and got up to leave.

"We want to know, as soon as you do, where Greer is headed," Reese said softly. Leon looked down at Reese and said, with a little smile, "Tell Sam to watch for the white tea. She'll know what I mean."

Reese sat there for a little longer, watching Leon melt into the crowd and disappear. Something wasn't right. He could feel it. Then, the young man with the white shirt and black pants was there at his table, sliding the dishes and coffee cup and water glass toward the edge of the table. Reese reached out and grabbed the kid's wrist with his hand, and the young man swung his eyes up to Reese, who had stood up in one motion, regretting it instantly when his broken rib jumped forward with the effort. The kid looked at him bend forward, grimacing, holding his chest. And then Reese gave up, turning away before he did something he might regret even more. The kid was saying something in Greek, but Reese was already gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Always; Million reasons  
**

* * *

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

Harold remembered how he used to feel on October days like this in the City, years ago. October was the best month, he said to himself. Often there was a cold snap early in the month, and it hastened the coloring of the trees, and people started to change gears from late Summer to full Fall, hauling out the sweaters and corduroys, the heavier jackets. And then Mother Nature would have another fling at Summer, Indian Summer, which would arrive and spend a week or two in New York. There would be warm, even hot, days full of sunshine and the deepest blue skies you had ever seen. And the nights would be cool – great sleeping weather if you didn't own an air conditioner.

Harold was walking with Bear at his side, slowly, limping, his gimpy leg swinging out to the opposite side, away from Bear. The sun was lower in the sky, and he could imagine that the colors of the clouds might tend more toward the deeper colors tonight: purples, magenta, orange-pinks. It took him back to his weekend Upstate, when he had had a dream in the middle of the night. It was a dream of times past, full of promise, touching. And in his head, as he was walking, he heard a song playing – that same guitarist he remembered from his trip Upstate, playing flamenco-style, fingers plucking the strings softly, speaking to him in guitar-language, the song swaying softly among the trees while he walked. In his mind:

 _Harold was asleep in the guest bedroom. There was an airiness around him that made him feel strong, like when he used to run through Central Park in the late afternoon in Fall, when it was cool and crisp. He remembered those days, when he could run, when he moved through space with ease, when his mind was full of flowcharts, design windows, testing strategies. He kept it all sorted out and organized, but it came to him in pieces, triggered by some random thought or event. He would pull out his notebook and jot down some keyword that would remind him later what he was thinking and would unfold sometimes into new code, or something he should remember to test in a certain way to check the code already written. He had been confident in those days, fully engaged in this project that would change the world._

 _There was a certain place that he was remembering, a place for which he had such fondness that it made him light up inside. He was happy, almost giddy. He was remembering the first time he saw it, when the light had been a certain color, deep blue-gray. The sun was low in the sky, chopped in the middle by a band of dark purple clouds, streamers of setting-sun light glowing out the top and the bottom._

 _He had stopped to take in the beauty of it all, before it dissolved away. He was on a sidewalk, with a low fence at the water's edge. People were walking by, but he was barely aware, caught in the moment of beauty. He watched the sun drop below the purple clouds, and the sunlight flared brightly for a few more minutes, the sky turning to orange-pink, magenta, gray._

 _From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of someone standing at the end of the sidewalk, where it curved back away from the water. Someone was standing near an easel, holding a brush, and looking out at the same sunset, captivated, forgetting to paint._

 _He stepped a little closer, then a little closer, until he could see the lines drawn on the canvas, and the work in progress. He stepped closer, and then said out loud, "the sunsets are beautiful here."_

 _In his memory, the artist turned around in slow-motion, smiling, ready to agree. He saw it in her expression. He saw the gentle smile, the soft eyes, her auburn hair. His heart skipped. This is where he had first seen her, with the sunset behind her. It was Grace._

Not far away he had knelt down on one knee and proposed to her. He remembered the thrill in his heart when she had said yes. And he remembered how it felt when she was in his arms then. In the late evenings she would lean against him, and he would raise her wrist to his brow and hold it there, her skin on his. And then, he would bring her wrist to his lips and hold it there, longer, until she lifted her eyes to his. Soft eyes, gentle smile, auburn hair. His heart skipped, always.

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

 _This wasn't going to work,_ Shaw thought to herself. She could think of a million reasons why. She was too busy. The Team would find out, and hound her. And, she had a black eye. How was she supposed to explain that?

 _This wasn't fair!_ The Machine had sent her after another number – _she seemed to be the only one working today, by the way_ ,

and now that she had found him, well, she couldn't take her eyes off him. It was not professional. This was a mission. He was a Person of Interest, just like all the others.

 _But, oh so NOT like all the others._

She was doing it again. Unprofessional. That kind of behavior could get her killed. What if he was the perp? He didn't look like a perp. He must be the victim.

 _Please let him be the victim! She could swoop in and save him and he would be – thankful._

Dear God, woman, go take a cold shower! He was just a man.

 _A slender man with a sleek black pony-tail, and a red bandana, and a leather jacket, and of course, a motorcycle. And then, there were those eyes._

Yes, Bad Boy written all over him. Aren't you listening?

 _Yes, this could work._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Moroccan; Good Cop; Good People  
**

* * *

 **Washington, D.C., October, 2014**

This was working out well, Root thought. She was back down in Washington after two quick days in Manhattan. And Harper was in Manhattan with Grace. So, rather than stay in hotels, where they were both a little more exposed, the two had agreed to stay in each other's apartments while they were away from their home offices.

Harper was young and had a fun sense of style, quirky things she had collected or had been given by friends with even more outrageous styles. Her apartment was on the third floor of an older building, with nice high ceilings and tall windows, rather stately-looking. But Harper had decorated her bedroom with Moroccan moucharabieh octagonal tables and white cut-out canvas mandalas on the walls around her bed.

She had a bright, intricately-patterned red tapestry hanging from each of the four corners of a canopy surrounding it and gauzy white drapes hanging inside the canopy, gathered and knotted in a thick loose knot on each side.

The bedspread was tufted, shiny, and the color of persimmon. At the end of the bed was a comfortable light-blue couch with a small soft Persian rug in front for your feet. The effect was lovely, exotic, so much like Harper herself, Root thought. It would be fun to crash here for a little while and live in her style.

She sat down on the couch and ran her bare feet through the silky nap of the Persian rug. This was a little like an unexpected spa surprise, or maybe more like a lover's hide-away. Hmm. Shaw.

She picked up her phone and clicked Shaw's number, leaning back, getting herself into the right state of mind, ready to use her most seductive voice when Shaw answered.

That's funny - she usually picked up right away...

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

Fusco had his fingers in the fencing, leaning forward, watching Lee shoot hoops on the other side. Lee missed half of them, mostly on the right side. Fusco was watching and his body kept bending to the left, as if bending himself would make it fly truer and help the ball make that satisfying sound, falling through the net. He could see that Lee was getting frustrated. He was throwing a little harder and the ball was ricocheting off the backboard harder, and Lee had to run after it. Interesting. He didn't seem to know the angles. He didn't anticipate where the ball would be when it bounced off the backboard.

Fusco thought that was something all boys were born with. He had certainly never struggled with anything like that when he was growing up. Stickball, baseball, football, basketball – he did all of it. The streets were full of kids in those days. Plenty of them for big teams. Their parents pressured them to let the little kids – and the girls – play, so the games were a joke sometimes. But they had to do it, or the excluded ones would go in and tell on them and they'd be in trouble. He shook his head, remembering some of the kids from the block. Probably half of them were in jail, or dead, he thought to himself, smiling. Rough crowd. But some had made something of themselves – got themselves out of the projects, moved up in the world. No drugs. No vice. Just normal lives.

Of course, being a cop for so long, Fusco had had a little looser concept of what normal meant. And that had been a problem. There were cops who did things by the book, who would never even think of accepting a little extra cash for a favor, of turning the other way for a fellow cop's poor choice. But, you know, these things were complicated. Not black and white. Sometimes things happened in the heat of the situation, and choices were made, and everyone had to decide what was going to happen next. One thing would lead to another and another, and pretty soon, there was no going back. You were a dirty cop.

Fusco looked up at his son, and nodded his head. Lee was a good kid. He wanted to be a better father to Lee than his father had been to him. Now that Lee was growing up and understanding more about how things really were, Fusco had to decide who he was going to be. That chance meeting with The Man in the Suit had changed everything. Reese could have killed him that day. Reese had gotten out of the cuffs in the back seat, when Fusco was driving him out to the dumping grounds in Oyster Bay, on Long Island. But, not only had he _not_ killed him, Reese had made sure Fusco could explain why Reese wasn't dead. He'd given him a way out. But there was Hell to pay, and Fusco was paying it.

Fusco looked at his son again. Whatever the cost, it was going to be worth it – to be a good cop again.

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

It was her turn to stay with Grace tonight. Fusco had been there last night, on the couch in the living room, and the couch still had traces of corn chips and some smears of green – guacamole? – and rings from a cold drink were clearly visible on the coffee table. It was supposed to be a safe house, not a frat house.

Harper was going to have to have a little chat with her new partner. She should have kept her mouth shut back in Bethesda. If she hadn't made the comment about Fusco's fashion sense, he would never have made her go with him to pick out clothes for Grace. It was her own fault – par for the course. Her quips had gotten her into more "situations" than she could count. And plenty of practice talking her way out of them.

Anyway, Grace was in the kitchen pouring some tea after they had come back from the walk past her old apartment. It was slow-going, trying to get Grace to remember what had gone on when she was held prisoner by Greer.

When Grace's number had come up that day in their office, for the second time since the office had opened, none of them had had any idea who she was. They didn't know that she was more than a typical Person of Interest. She was Family.

Sam had contacted the Team up in New York to see what they knew, since Grace's bio had given her last known address up there, in Manhattan. Hundreds of millions of people living in the U.S., and Reese had known who she was after two sentences from Sam.

They stayed up all night trying to track her, but it had turned out that Harold had made her disappear when she moved overseas to Italy. He had erased her from view, trying to protect her from Greer, and from Samaritan. No one else on _their_ team could find her, and yet Greer was able to get to her in Italy. How had he done it, when no one else could?

Once they had realized who Grace was, and that she was in trouble, Shaw had been the one to make the call to Harold. Harper thought about that call – not one she would have wanted to make with Harold. He seemed like a nice guy. A total geek, for sure, but he seemed like a good guy. Reese and Sam seemed to really like him. Funny that Fusco didn't seem to know him as well as they did.

The Team's trip to Bethesda had been her first face-to-face meeting with Harold. She had heard about him, and tried to imagine what he'd look like. Old-guy clothes. Who wore plaid suits like that anymore? She kind of liked his haircut, though. And the glasses. They fit him. The clothes, though, definitely needed a serious update. She expected to smell mothballs around him, like at her great-aunt's house, when she was a kid.

Grace was just coming back from the kitchen with two cups of hot tea. Before she even got to the coffee table, Harper could smell the vanilla-cinnamon scent that had wafted out of the kitchen, ahead of Grace. That was nice of her, to make tea for the two of them. That should have been her job, not Grace's. But Grace was not the kind to be fussed-over. She liked to do for herself. Harper accepted the mug from Grace, with a smile. She liked Grace. She was good people.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Right Thing; Shaolin**

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

How long could it stay like this? How far down would he go – if he just let go and let himself sink. So easy, to just let himself sink lower, slowly, drifting down. No pain. No thoughts. It was all just right – the lighting, the temperature, the weight of the air on him – just perfect. Better than free-fall in air. There was no sense of falling at all, but there was movement, downwards, he thought.

It was not long before Harold's head tipped forward, slowly, until he reached the limits of what his damaged spine would allow these days. He was at his desk in the library office. Three in the morning, well before dawn, and yet there was some light in the darkness of the room. A soothing light entered from the high windows. Manhattan never really went to bed. There was always traffic, activity, streetlight just outside, and it painted the windows with dim white light that glowed into the darkness of this space that he had loved. Surrounded by thousands of books, tens of thousands just on this floor alone, winding in careful, precise lines like corridors; he could smell them, sense their paper, their leather covers, their quiet aging on the shelves surrounding him at his desk.

There was safety here, here among the books. They were patient with him. They regarded him with deference, even tenderness, in his current state. They could see that he was struggling. They made space for him to rest among them, as they watched over him all night long.

Reese found Harold in the library office sitting alone at his desk, just past dawn. It was very quiet. Even Bear hardly stirred on his bed. He just looked up to see who was there, and wagged his tail softly, then went back to sleep. Harold stirred as footsteps approached.

Reese carried in two blue and white coffee cups from the deli down the street. He was up early, too, before dawn, arriving at the deli with the dark-eyed quiet men who worked construction, laborers who grabbed coffee and egg sandwiches before piling into pickups headed for dusty, fenced-in gashes in the ground.

One cup had tea for Harold, and the other had coffee for himself. Reese reached out to Harold with the tea and he took the cup but then just sat with it, absently, in his hands. Steam from the hot coffee curled up off its black surface, and Reese aimed his cup so he could observe Harold's face, above its rim. Harold was staring off into space, but there were small movements in his expression as though responding to something in the stream of his private thoughts. Reese frowned. Harold was too quiet – it was unsettling.

Since they had returned from Bethesda, Harold was more and more distracted, distant. He hadn't tried to confide in anyone as far as Reese knew. And Reese wasn't sure this was the right time to bring it up – about Grace. He could see how it was weighing on Harold's mind, but he was waiting to see if Harold brought the subject up himself. If not, Reese would understand. Harold just wasn't ready to talk about it yet. He needed time to come to terms with what had been done to Grace. Every day more was coming out; everyone on the Team could see that Harold was sinking further with each new detail. They didn't know what to do to help him. The things that they would do for each other: cajoling, ribbing, pulling rank – none of it would work for Harold. He was different. His mind worked in such a different way than theirs. It made them all uneasy to see him like this.

Fusco and Harper had secluded Grace inside one of the safe-houses as soon as they had returned to Manhattan. They were working with her every day, like a tag team, slowly taking her back through the events that she could remember from the last two months. Harold had been able to give them details about her abduction in Italy. Greer had made sure that Harold saw it happen, on a TV monitor, when Harold was his prisoner in Bethesda – just one more tactic to try to bring Harold to his knees. Using details about the abduction, Fusco and Harper were able to help Grace piece together a little more of the story:

 _She remembered that she had been held in a concrete bunker, underground, for much of the time. She was alone in her cell, unable to tell day from night, or one day from the next. Her captors had kept coming for her at all different hours, interrupting her sleep, asking her all kinds of questions that she couldn't answer._

 _She told them that Greer was initially friendly towards her – encouraging, coaxing. But as time went on, he began to get more and more upset, impatient with her when she couldn't answer his questions. They started threatening her with worse treatment, even torture. Grace was scared. No one knew she was down there. She had no hope of rescue._

 _But then Grace noticed that their tactics changed. She remembered waking up and knowing that something had happened to her, but she couldn't recall what. She began to dread waking up that way. Blocks of time were missing. She felt more and more blank. Her memories were fading, sliding away just beyond her reach. It seemed like every time she woke, more of her memories were missing. She began to feel terrified of what would be left once her memories were all gone. The whole thing had paralyzed her; she had no recourse, no way to stop them from taking everything from her._

 _Grace recalled that they had always brought her to a room with white walls, each time they came for her. At first she would be seated in a chair, with her hands tied behind her. Then, she was lying down. People were standing over her, speaking, but she couldn't hear what they were saying. Darkness would come, and the next thing she knew, she was waking in her cell, missing more time._

 _She did clearly remember that Greer had sent a particular man to her cell, an interrogator who pressured her for information, insisting that she was holding back what he needed to know, saying over and over that she was lying to them to protect her colleagues. She couldn't convince him that it wasn't true. He kept coming, day after day, wearing her down, until she couldn't bear to see his face at her cell door any longer._

 _Harper and Detective Fusco had even showed her a picture of the man. They told her his name was Harold, but didn't explain anything more about him. Seeing his face again like that had made her pull back, repulsed. That was a face she never wanted to see again._..

Reese could see the change in Harold's face. Harold was taking this hard, feeling fully responsible for everything that had happened to Grace. It was tearing him up inside to know that Grace had become a target just for knowing him. He wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating, and wasn't concentrating on his work. Reese had been finding him like this, at his desk, neither sleeping, nor fully awake.

For the rest of them on the Team, things like this came with the territory. In their line of work, capture and mind games, even torture, were possibilities they lived with. They were trained to deal with it. But for Finch and Grace, this was so far past the boundaries of their experience that neither one could grasp it when it had happened to them. They were not prepared for this. They were civilians, not soldiers.

When Harold had first come home, after the Team had freed him from Greer, they knew that Greer had used rounds of profound sensory deprivation inside an isolation tank, then drugs and coercion, to try and break him. Greer was desperate to get his hands on the Machine. He had tried to mislead Harold, tried to convince him that his Team was gone, destroyed by Greer's own forces.

He had used a woman he altered to look just like Grace. Greer knew that Harold would trust Grace, and he had used her to feed Harold lies about the Team. The isolation tank was just the beginning. It had weakened him, stripped him of his senses again and again, had taken away his sense of time. Inside the black tank he was floating, awake and aware, but unable to make sense of his surroundings. Each time he was put inside the tank, he would wake up in total darkness. No vision, no hearing, no sense of touch at all – afloat without sensation, in total blackness. Awareness without sensation became terror.

The brain without sensation shuts down. It cannot function without input. He would hallucinate until his brain – mercifully – went quiet. Sleep state? Unconsciousness? And then, if he woke again, still inside, it would begin all over again...

Then they plucked him from it:

 _He would wake in a room, by himself, in a comfortable chair with his feet up on an ottoman. And there were stacks of his books, as though he had been napping after reading all morning long. The door had opened and she had entered, crossed to his chair and kissed him awake. Startled, he would look up and see her face. In this state, Grace's image became Grace herself, right down to the voice he knew so well. He had been so hungry for something familiar, something real. He made her real in his mind._

 _She told him how he had come to be there in that room, recovering she said. He had locked Reese and Shaw together inside a vault, to keep them safe, while he carried out one last mission for the Team. Everything was collapsing around them. Harold knew he was likely not going to survive. He was badly wounded, shot by one of Samaritan's soldiers, but he was making his way across a rooftop where he would upload the final instructions that would silence Samaritan for good._

 _She said his Machine had been attacked; the only way to save it had been to siphon off it's core processes into a suitcase, so it could be kept hidden from Greer and survive the final devastating blow they had planned for Samaritan. But the Machine was crippled in this compressed state, running only essential code, unable to help Harold with more than just some final guidance. Odd that, at the end, it was Root's voice in his earpiece, giving his Machine's final words to him before full shutdown._

 _Harold was there on the roof, but faltering from shock, blood loss. He remembered leaning against a wall at the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the street below before something caught his attention._

 _Reese was on a nearby rooftop. He had escaped the vault, floors below Harold, with the Machine's help. Reese knew that Harold might have had this ending in mind, sacrificing himself to save the rest of the Team and his Machine._

 _But Reese and the Machine had conspired. Harold was sent to the wrong rooftop. Reese would be the one to upload the code to destroy Samaritan, and then draw fire from Samaritan's soldiers, so Harold could escape and live on._

 _Grace told him that Reese had given everything in the end, for him. So like Reese._

 _She let him believe that Reese allowed himself to be ambushed on the rooftop. Harold could only watch helplessly as the firing started. His Machine could not intervene. Harold could not even call for help from his Team._

 _For Harold, it was just like Carter and Reese back on the street corner, all over again. Shots fired, one of their own down again. But this time it was Reese who would not get up. Harold remembered the sight of him, sitting in the open on the rooftop, no longer firing back. He was slumped forward, gun dropped down from his hand, resting on the ground at his side. Harold couldn't see his face. Reese had lowered his eyes, away from the soldiers, perhaps sparing Harold from the memory of his eyes in his final moments._

 _There were no longer any movements in his chest. Red stains, too many to count, spread one into another across the white shirt. So still. Final.  
_

 _It was over... He was gone... Unbearable... His friend._

 _Grace comforted him in his grief. And she used that terrible moment to tell him that the entire Team was gone now, too; hunted one by one, preferring to die in battle than to surrender to Samaritan. She had told him that he was the only one left, that he had barely survived his own wounds._

 _Harold had believed her. Greer was right. He couldn't help trusting Grace. Greer's plan had nearly worked._

For Harold, much of his own capture and torment were still submerged below his conscious mind. It would only give him a little of it at a time, so painful were these memories to him. He could only access bits and pieces. So Harold could understand what Grace was going through right now.

His own torture in the isolation tank had left him numb, empty for months after he was freed by the Team. He had had no feelings at first, no emotional life at all. He could only pretend to have feelings. But now, as his memory of it was beginning to return, stirred by Grace's torment, there were new, deeper feelings: pain, confusion, and smoldering anger. There was an unfamiliar stirring inside him; he was beginning to want something he had never desired before in his life – revenge.

Harold looked up and realized Reese was watching him. He was so uncomfortable with these thoughts. He was not a violent man. He had not been raised to think this way. It was like something ripping away inside, to have such thoughts, when he had tried so hard his whole life to do the right thing. Harold looked to Reese again.

Reese was a soldier. He had killed people, had done things that Harold could not even imagine. And yet, Reese was a decent man, in spite of his past. Reese had been chosen precisely because of his past.

It had all seemed so simple at first. They would get the numbers from the Machine, and they would work together to find out who was a victim and who was a perpetrator, and then prevent any harm to the victim. Reese was perfect for that. He knew how to surveil, how to interview, how to apply pressure, and ultimately, how to stop a threat.

But, Harold had never considered what effect it would have on all of them, especially Reese – all of this violence, all of this pain, from wounds they could see and those they couldn't. How had it all come to this?

All of their sacrifices – Carter's death; Reese's near-death with Carter, and all of the wounds he had endured for them; Nathan's death in the ferry boat explosion; all the deception and lies he had let Grace believe about him, uprooting her to move to Italy, and then her capture and torture.

It was all his fault. He had created this monster that had devoured them all and spat them out, crushed, ruined. It had to stop. It must stop...

"Finch," Reese said softly and Harold raised his eyes, the downward spiral of his thoughts broken.

"Mr. Reese," he said back, "you're here early." Harold avoided his eyes, pulling off his glasses to clean them, instead. Reese frowned.

"We have work to do, Finch. I'm meeting with Leon tomorrow and I need to know what was on that thumb drive he gave me last week - he said maybe something to do with power grids?"

Harold nodded and sat up straighter in his chair. He reached over to his laptop and powered it on, sipping cold tea from the blue and white cup on his desk. Then he looked up at Reese while he over-explained: "We can't assume Mr. Tao is trustworthy. I had to open the drive on a stand-alone computer far away from here. The drive could have been dangerous to us, transferring malicious code if we opened it in here. It could have attacked our systems – like a trojan horse."

Reese nodded as though he knew what Harold was talking about, but he didn't, not really. That was Harold's world. But he had to agree about Leon – he couldn't be trusted. Reese had to know whether Leon was just leading them on, or whether he really had something on that drive.

"The drive did have schematics. That was correct. But the important part had nothing to do with power grids. I believe it has more to do with the sites where the plants are located. I can't be sure yet. We need more data. If Mr. Tao wants to prove himself trustworthy, he needs to provide us more data."

Reese nodded his head in agreement. Leon would be meeting him again the next day and Reese had left word that he wasn't impressed with what Leon had supplied thus far. Leon would have to do better.

 **Steppes, West of Beijing, China, October, 2014**

Dawn light just painted the Eastern sky at the horizon, and the new glow falls across his face. His eyes are closed, and he sits tipped slightly forward on the flat surface of a tree stump cut close to the ground. It's cold in the morning mist. Wind has started up again, fitful, blowing hard across the grasslands before him, nothing left standing high enough to block it, for centuries.

Slowly, the light increases. His full face and shaved head illuminate. He opens his eyes. In front, before him, the empty land falls away below his bare feet. He rises, bows deeply, in acknowledgement of sunrise, which stares, one-eyed, in return. Cold eye; no love for this windy land.

No matter. He adjusts his footing, knees turned in, like clamping a goat, arms held at his sides, hands held forward. In sunrise misty light, he begins the form, _Siu Lim Tao_. Slow movement, graceful, forward, powerful, like motion in molasses, tracing back to Shaolin. Meditation in motion. Over and over. Precise. Practiced.

Not far away, in the small shack where he sleeps and eats his meals, a small ledge near the iron grating where he cooks holds a photograph. Crisp, sharp, foreign, held down in the harsh winds by a rough stone; on it, the clear image of a man. The photo fluttered in the wild wind... Reese. It was John Reese.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 2:

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Not what she expected**

* * *

 **Manhattan, October, 2014 - rated T for violence  
**

Shaw knelt low to the ground, in the darkness, her hand braced on the edge of a stone fountain. It was empty now, water-less and silent so late in the season. On the far side, in deep shadow, was a figure: slender, leaning back against a metal beam, barely visible in the darkness. Shaw drew her gun.

The man their Machine had sent her to find was steps away, too, his back to the shadow-figure. Shaw crept ahead, her hand tracing the stone edge of the fountain while her eyes stayed fixed on the figure.

Once she had made her way far enough around the fountain, where she would be more exposed, she moved away, at ninety degrees, and slipped behind a beam that lifted up overhead to the roof line. She stopped to check her POI, then back to the shadow-figure. No movement from either one yet.

In silence, she stepped alongside a table and chairs, then another, closing in on the shadow-figure, who was still watching him.

Then movement: the shadow knelt suddenly, leaning forward, with an arm coming up. Shaw stepped out quickly for a clear shot, an arm's length from the figure, who saw her and swung the arm toward her. Shaw fired once and the shadow in the shadows flew backwards, twisting to the left, metal clattering on the ground.

She swung back to find her POI, but he was already running. She let him go.

Shaw kept her gun trained on the figure, while she listened for anyone else who might be approaching, and then moved forward until she could see the body more clearly. A woman. She touched her neck, feeling for a pulse, and it was there, fast and thready. Shaw turned her over, checked her for any other weapons, and for a wound. There on the left, above the breast, Shaw had hit her in the chest.

She stepped over the woman, picked up the gun from the ground, and tucked it in the holster under her jacket. Her penlight was there next to the holster, and she clicked it on, shining the light onto the woman's face. No response with the light. Shaw didn't recognize her.

She took out her phone and clicked Fusco's number. "Lionel, it's me. I'm going to need you to come and pick up someone who was trying to shoot me."

"He's still alive?" Lionel asked, surprised.

"She – and yes, for the moment," Shaw said, checking the pulse again. "But, it's not looking good for her." She pulled the lower end of the woman's jacket up to the wound and applied pressure to slow the blood loss, knowing it was pointless.

Inside, too much blood was draining from vessels where Shaw couldn't reach, couldn't stop without opening the chest. Had they been back in the ER, during her days in medicine, that would have been exactly what she'd have done – scalpel to the chest, cut through skin, clip through the sternum, find the bleeder, cross-clamp the aorta – whatever it took. But not this time. Soon there would be no blood returning to the heart to pump, and soon after that, the heart would cease to pump, starved of oxygen to run the muscle; by then, the pulse in her neck would have faded until it finally stopped. Shaw clicked through each step in her mind, confident that this wound would behave in just that way. And yet, she applied pressure to it, anyway. Pointless, but Shaw couldn't wait there and do nothing. Once a physician...

Shaw told Fusco where to find them, then snapped a picture of the woman's face to send to Reese. Reese was with Harold, at the office, when she called him. She told him what had happened, and sent him the picture of the woman. Maybe he and Harold could track her down with the picture. Reese showed it to Harold, who shook his head. He didn't know the face, either. They both looked up at the glass wall. It didn't match the one on the glass next to the picture of Shaw's POI.

"Miss Shaw, are you safe?" Harold called out to her over Reese's phone.

"I am – thanks for asking," she said softly from the shadows. "I'll be in touch –" and she ended the call.

It seemed like just five minutes had passed when Shaw heard footsteps coming, quietly. She raised her gun. Lionel's voice called out "Shaw?" and she answered him, lowering the gun as he approached the two of them.

She clicked on the penlight for him, and Fusco knelt down next to the body, feeling for a pulse. He looked up to Shaw and shook his head.

Shaw lifted her hand from the wound and shrugged her shoulders. Nothing she could do. The woman had aimed a gun at her, and kneecapping her to stop her from firing was not an option at that moment. If she had gotten off the shot, at that close range, it would have been Shaw on the ground instead.

"So what happened?" he asked.

"I was following the new POI. He came in here to meet with someone, and I saw her, hiding in the shadows. She started to aim for him, but when I stepped in, she went for me, instead. We don't know who she is right now."

"What happened to the guy?"

"Left in a hurry," She said, looking at the spot where he had been standing. She reached inside her jacket for the gun and wiped it down carefully, then put it down next to the body. "It's hers." Lionel nodded, and stood up next to her.

"I'm gonna go now, Lionel. I've gotta find him, see if he knows who she was." Fusco nodded again.

"I'll call this in. We'll try to get an ID on our end. Stay in touch," he said as she was walking off. Once she was back on the street, she called Reese.

"Fusco came and he's taking care of things at the scene. He's calling it in, so Homicide will be taking over the case. My guy left the scene and I'm pursuing. Any news for me about the woman?"

"Negative," Reese said. He told Shaw she should come in, and let him go instead, but she was adamant. She was going to find the POI before someone else did. If the dead woman was not the one they were expecting, maybe more than one person was after him. She would head to his apartment to see if he had gone back there after the shooting.

Her car was on the next corner, and she walked quickly, thinking of finding him at his apartment. Shaw had already been there earlier to case the place, see what she could find out about him. East side, fifty-third, near Lexington. It was an older brick building, up on the top floor, with a view of the river through an arched window with heavy wooden spokes dividing it into wide thirds. Below the window and on two other walls were shelves of books, hundreds of them, and stacks of them on the floor in nearly every room. Journals, copies of scientific papers in English, and even more in Italian, overflowed the tabletop in that library room. In one corner was a wooden turntable that looked like it had come from decades ago, and next to it, shelves of old LP records, originals.

In the kitchen, he had a stainless steel island in the middle of walls of slender cabinets like Shaw had seen in Europe before. Well-seasoned pots hung down from a gleaming metal pot rack, and an Italian crock jar full of utensils sat ready for work, next to the wide gas stove. He liked to cook, apparently. Books, music, cooking. This was not what she had expected from this man with the red bandana, ponytail, leather jacket and motorcycle. Not at all. What else about him might surprise her? She was drawn to his bedroom next. What would that be like?

Dark grey flannel, thick and soft, wrapped around a down comforter; wood floor, carved wooden headboard from long ago and far away, Europe for sure, like a treasure in the room. Leather chair, leather ottoman and a floor lamp to read from the book stack on the floor; claw foot tub in the bathroom, next to a sleek shower and a shaving mug with his razor leaning on the rim. Not what she had expected. Not at all...

When she arrived on his street, she looked up at the apartment window. Dark. She would wait for a little while in her car, to see if he came back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Intention** **  
**

* * *

 **Upstate New York, November, 2014**

She looked out through her kitchen window, up at the sky. Darkening. Dusk. She smiled and pulled on her jacket, then walked down the hallway to the living room, past the L-shaped leather couch, and out the french doors to the deck. Two eyes swung sharply toward her, and glowed in the light from the open door. Buddha started to flee, but seeing her, stopped; he arched his back instead, and then dropped down off her chaise, sidling, then rubbing against her legs while she leaned down to scratch behind his ears.

Green eyes, cat's eyes, almost wild; but then captured in cat-ecstasy with her hands on his head and neck the way he liked it, until it was too much, and he flashed his teeth to her hand. Just in time, he stopped. No blood drawn, just the sudden sharpness of the fangs on her skin. They both drew back. Jules had said "No!" and he backed away, ears flattened on his head, and then he came forward, rubbing against her legs again, trying to erase it, make it go back again the way it was. Jules squatted down next to him, and gave him a quick rub on the head. All forgiven. He watched her walk off the deck down onto the lawn leading away from the woods, to the cleared land.

Tall brown grasses, dried, and rubbing, scratching against one another, parted as she made her way through the field toward the old stone shed ahead. The spring house. It had seen better days, but it still served its purpose, sheltering the spring that pushed up silently from the ground inside, replenishing moment by moment the cold pool of water at the surface.

She passed by the shed, and turned to the right, heading down the hill to the woods. Ahead was the training school, a simple wooden building, facing East, where she practiced every day when she was home. It drew her, at this time of day. Dusk. When the light was changing states, and the hum of daylight was dwindling down to nothing. For a few moments there would be no sound at all, and the air was already changing states to night air – before the sound could catch up. At those magical moments, like in the space between two heartbeats, time could suspend. A power that was not available in day's light was there for her, at dusk.

This was such a moment. She could feel it coming. She stopped walking to pay more attention. In the background, the sound of dried husks in the field shaking in the sudden breeze, and then the touch of the wind on her skin; she felt a soft vibration, insistent, in the air in front of her chest. She closed her eyes, and the vibration grew stronger. In this space, which she kept for him, she felt a stirring, a disturbance, like a vibration in the air. She knew what it was, who it was. Harold. He was calling out to her, even before he had formed the thought to do so. She nodded, and turned back to her house. There were things to do, to get ready for him.

In the large square room at the end of the hallway, soft orange light shone from the salt lamp on the cabinet, its dim light the only illumination in the house for now. Firelight in the fireplace had burned itself down to small blue flames at the edges of blackened plates of wood, consumed logs, slowly tumbling lower on the iron holder. Their blue flame was the only other light in the house now.

Music from her treatment room filled the space and spilled out into the house in the darkness, softly. It had carried him on its tender notes: soothing flutes, harp, sitar, rising up from underneath him, holding him like a gentle raft. He was far from here, carried by sound, to peace of mind.

In the dim light, her hands were on his chest now, resting on soft thick flannel covering him as he rested on her table. Here was the trouble. She could feel it below her hands – like a dam holding floodwaters, straining, cracking. Unseen forces lashed him like a storm, lightning flashing through him below her hands. But then, something more, immense and silent, beneath the storm. Dark. Brooding. Water. It felt like water in endless blackness. She saw him floating – without sound, without light, without touch – in Nothingness. Unwelcome Nothingness...

Far off was a sound, too soft to hear, but coming to her. His sound. In the blackness he had made a sound that he could not hear with his own ears. But he could feel its vibration and know that he had made it. Soundless sound, felt as vibration instead. He had found a way to win. They could not keep him from this one sensation, his note, which she heard, too. She would hold it in her mind, for him.

Hours later, when he woke on her table, warm, comfortable, rested, he had risen from the table and come down the hallway to the kitchen. He could smell the tea she liked, Egyptian Licorice Mint. For some reason, that delighted him and he smiled. He walked out to the living room nearby, where Jules sat on the L-shaped couch in front of the fire. Her eyes were closed, and she looked like she was far away, but in that moment, she opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"Harold, come," she said softly, gesturing to the living room, her eyes smiling. He walked slowly to the chair with the ottoman, across from her, remembering how comfortable it had been when he was there last month.

"Would you like your tea?" she asked. He didn't want to trouble her to make tea for him, but then he saw that it was already there, in front of her on the coffee table. He nodded, and she poured a cup for him. Sencha tea. The aroma rose with the steam, comforting. He sipped it, and almost instantly a deep breath settled him more deeply in his chair.

For minutes they sat silently. Jules waited. There was no rush, no need to press at this delicate moment. Just let it happen, she said to herself. Her eyes were on the fire in the fireplace, replenished by her when she had left Harold in her treatment room, asleep. Music from the loop she had left playing at the end spilled from the room, down the hallway, and here, where they were sitting. She could see from the edge of her field of vision that Harold was finding the right words to begin.

"Jules, I am – I want to understand what you do – in there," he moved his head, awkwardly, toward the treatment room.

"I am frankly at a loss to explain it, Jules." Harold began to tense, and she could feel his energy rising, like fear-energy, and she raised her hand to stop him.

"Harold, I'll explain and you will see how it works. But I need you to stop thinking about it – up here," she said, pointing to her head. He looked at her, confused.

"It's a story, Harold. Like a bedtime story. Just have some tea, lean back in your chair, and get comfortable. I am telling you a story that you already know, from long, long ago. But you forgot it. It will sound familiar, and then you'll know it again. Lean back. Enjoy." Jules took a sip of her licorice tea, the rush of licorice first, strong and aromatic. Then after, the coolness of mint on the tongue to finish. It gave her a little push forward, like a breeze in her sails, and she leaned back to start.

"Each of us, all of us are beings made up of flesh and blood, bone, organs. And those are made of smaller parts, cells, which are made of yet smaller parts, and so on, until we reach molecules, atoms, electrons. Beyond that, fields, waves, probabilities. Too hard to imagine that far down. Let's back up a step. Almost anyone can imagine a molecule. Atoms, electrons spinning around them like moons around a planet. Think of us made up of countless, busy, vibrating molecules.

"Light is a vibration, heat is a vibration, sound is a vibration. We interact as vibrations." Jules stopped for a moment to see if he followed her so far. He was leaning back on the chair, with his feet on the ottoman, comfortable, relaxed with the sound of her voice. Calming, mesmerizing.

"I am a healer, Harold, a healer who works with the hands. When I am close to you, when I place my hands on you, what do I sense? Heat from your skin, sound from your breath. And I see you as light, Harold. We are light-beings." She saw him frown at this and she stopped.

"Light-beings, Jules?"

"Think of our heat signal, luminous like the blobs of light on a thermal imaging screen, glowing in the shape of our bodies, Harold." He nodded, with the picture in his mind, as she continued.

"Heat, light, sound, Harold. We are vibration. When I am in your presence, I feel your vibration, and I can interact with it, move it, shape it, free it."

"How do you do that, Jules? What is the mechanism?" She smiled at his question. The scientist, the engineer in him could not resist.

"Intention, Harold. I hold an intention in my mind."

"I don't understand." He was looking at her, confused again, but still listening to her story.

"If I want to help you, help heal you, Harold, I hold an intention in my thoughts."

"Do you mean like "make this tumor go away?"" he asked.

"No, Harold. I don't make it so specific, and there is a reason for that, but let me just say that I hold an intention like "the highest good for all concerned,"" Jules replied, watching him consider her words. She slowed her words, to give him time to hear them more deeply.

"A healing intention is a high energy vibration. It is powerful. It travels fast and far from the source. When I hold a healing intention for you, it moves through me, to you, the instant I form it. It moves through my hands, through the air, all around us, and out into space beyond us. It is inescapable," she said, with her eyes on Harold. He had settled back in the chair, with eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly, her voice in his head like a familiar poem.

"And it does not require me. There are other forms of healing intention that will help. You are listening to one now. This piece was made with healing intention held by the musicians. Just like the flutes, and the harp, the keyboards, each of those instruments makes sound, vibrations, that are recorded on the CD. The musicians hold an intention, a healing intention, when they perform this music. Their intention is a vibration, too, radiating out into space. It is recorded, just like the flute, and your brain can perceive it, just like the flute. Your cells hear the healing intention, and they respond." She stopped, as the final selection of this CD loop began to play in the background, flutes gently encouraging, rising, lifting the troubled mind. It was called "Mending Your Own Mind" and she stayed silent while it enveloped them with healing sound.

At the end, she told him that he had homework. He was to listen to music created with healing intention, like the music she had played in her session with him.

"Harold, I want to warn you. There will be hard days ahead. Things will get worse before they get better. You are not going crazy. You were badly wounded, and you are healing. You are not alone."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: The Picture**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

Raw and rainy, drizzling really, today. Just the kind of weather to make you want to curl up with something hot or something strong to chase the chill.

It seems like this kind of weather made everything hurt: all the old stuff he walked around with: from sports, from tramping around in the mountains as a kid in Colorado, from all the days and nights of training and fighting in the Rangers, and some tough injuries through the years. It felt like they were all catching up with him today.

He was achy, and after lunch time, standing in the rain, he had started to get chills. He was shivering inside his coat. Shaw took one look at him when he got back to the office, and she pointed to the door.

"Get out! Go home, Reese! Take your germs with you and don't come back until you're over whatever you've got – " And so, he left early today and headed back home. He'd missed lunch, but he really wasn't hungry anyway, just cold.

He stopped at the deli down the street for some soup, and then headed up the front steps to his apartment. Shivering in wet clothes, he dropped the keys twice trying to get the door open, and almost dropped the bag with his soup in it. But, finally, he was inside, and he leaned back against the door, pushing it closed with his shoulder.

The light was rainy-gray from the high windows in the living room and it made the small alcove by the front door nearly dark. He stood there for a minute, waiting, and took notice of the subtle things he always checked for, when he got home. It was a little test he did with himself at the front door. The air had to be just right. It layered out during the time he was away, and there was a certain feel and smell to it – when no one had been there all day.

Paying attention to things like that had saved his butt a couple of times. He had gone into a tight space one time with his men, back in Afghanistan, and he knew right away that it wasn't empty. Someone was hiding in there – from the body heat and even the smell of the air currents, disturbed by someone walking through – it was different than when it was empty. Saved their lives that time.

His buddies stopped making fun of him after that, and they always wanted him to go in first to "check the air" for them after that. Reese smiled, thinking about them, all their faces. Bunch of knuckleheads...

A bad chill came on, and he started into the kitchen with the bag of hot soup. He almost stepped on a manila envelope on the floor, and side-stepped it at the last moment. He looked down at it first, on the floor, before he picked it up. Nothing on the side facing up at him; no name, address, return address. Blank. It looked like it might have had a single sheet of paper inside it. No bulge, nothing that looked suspicious. Maybe someone had pushed it under his door after he'd left this morning.

He turned it over and opened the prongs. It wasn't taped or glued closed, so he lifted the flap and looked inside. It was a photograph. He walked over to his couch and sat down, another bad chill coming on, and pulled the picture up from the envelope in the rain-light.

It hit him right in the chest. Carter. It was an eight-by-ten of Carter. A little fuzzy, like it was from a cheap surveillance camera. Reese could see she was in the squad room, just standing up from her desk, with that little smile she had when she was on to something and couldn't wait to get going.

He remembered that look. He'd seen that one so many times on her. He smiled to himself as he remembered her with that little half-smile.

And then, he saw that there was someone else in the picture, too, in the background; it was him. He was looking at Carter; and the shot had captured a certain look in his eyes.

He was looking at her like he'd been waiting to say something, like he'd wanted to tell her something, but then didn't. And wished that she already knew...

Ah, this hurt. He never realized. He didn't know until just that moment how he had felt then. But he could see it in his eyes, in the picture, the way he was looking at her.

He started shaking, and his breath was ragged all of a sudden. He leaned back on the couch, lying down, shivering - cold, but he was sweating, and every muscle was aching.

Reese was too cold to get up and go get a blanket, but too cold to stay there without one. He pulled off his wet coat, and swung it around as fast as he could, in front, like a blanket over him and curled up in a ball underneath it. Of course, he didn't fit. The cold air was hitting him in the back, and on his legs.

The soup was right there, and he reached out for it and pulled off the cover, spilling hot broth on his hands. It felt good, the heat. And then he brought the lip of the carton up and drank in almost half of it in one shot, heating the core of him as it ran down inside, but making him shiver even more.

This was not good. He couldn't get warm. Reese huddled under his coat, shivering, shaking bad, waiting it out for the soup to work...

He wanted to see her face again. The picture was on the coffee table in front of him, and his eyes went to it again, while he was lying there, shivering and sweating, on the leather couch. He looked at her face in the picture again. Clear eyes. He was thinking about those eyes. Honest. She always told it like it was. No sugar-coating. It was her way or no way.

Only once had he seen her _not_ in charge, uncertain. When Elias took her son.

Carter and Fusco were in one of the safe-houses with the dons from the New York mob, and Elias had taken her son, from school. He told Carter that she only had to walk away, and she could get her son back; he'd be safe.

But she told him no. She wouldn't do it.

Reese remembered the look in her eyes when he'd brought her son back, safe, to her. He'd gotten him out of Elias' hide-out, and brought him back to her, on the street-corner.

In her eyes, that look, that feeling for him – Reese wanted that again.

He was shaking again, but not from the cold this time. He reached out for the picture and pulled it under his coat against his chest – but it was cold, lifeless.

It made him remember the time he had finally said something to her; in the morgue, just before he left her, to draw fire away from her there.

He'd thought it might be the last time he'd ever see her, and he wanted her to know, before he left. He told her that she'd saved his life, that first day, when he was arrested and showed up at her precinct.

She'd reached him, just when he'd given up on people, on himself. She'd caught him when he was falling.

He remembered his hands on her face there, and she was looking up, into his eyes. That look was in her eyes again, like on the street corner with her son.

He wanted that. He wanted her.

He pulled her in closer, touching him in his chest – and then, their lips. Softly. Gently.

So much tenderness in her, behind the fire. He felt it. In her lips; in her body against him. Ah, this was hurting him again.

He wanted that kiss to last so much longer...

* * *

Reese was hearing music. Soft music all around him. It was a guitar. And he opened his eyes.

Carter was there, sitting next to him on the edge of the couch, smiling. He sat up, heart racing. He couldn't let her get away this time. He had to tell her.

"John, you're sick. You have a fever. Lay back down and rest," she said, her eyes serious, her hands on his chest.

"No, no, Joss. I need to say this. I need you to hear this." He reached up with his hands to her face, and felt her skin, warm in his hands. She was smiling, and that look was in her eyes, again. He loved that look – and yet, it made him ache to see it – so hard to see it like this. He was holding her face in his hands:

"I never told you, never said what I wanted to say. I thought there'd be more time."

She was nodding, knowing, letting him go on. Softly, almost whispering: "You saved me, Joss, when I didn't want to go on. I was lost. Had lost everything – everyone. I needed you to find me, and there you were." Aching, from that look in her eyes.

In a whisper to her face in his hands: "You made me strong again. Gave me something good to do again, to be again."

Her eyes were smiling, shining bright with tears. He pulled her close, touching her lips, just brushing them with his. He could feel her breath. And again; brushing her lips with his. Softly. Gently. Then, pressing his lips to hers. Tears were sliding down his face. Dissolving. He was dissolving in this kiss. Let it last. He didn't want it to end.

He could feel her heartbeat at her throat, so strong against his hand. So real. She was here to give him one more chance. He could tell her everything he never said, show her what she'd meant to him.

He was shivering. The music, singing just for them, so softly. He stood and pulled her up to him, against him – laid her head against him, his lips brushing her face. Don't let it end this time. Don't let it end. He needed her. Tell her. Say it to her.

"Joss, I need you. Stay. Stay here with me," he whispered and brushed her face with his lips. She was so warm there in his arms. Precious. He couldn't bear to lose her again. He wanted this to last. If he kept her here like this, in his arms, she couldn't leave, wouldn't leave him. And that pain from losing her would go away. His heart would stop breaking and mend.

His arms surrounded her, held her closer, jealous of the Time that had stolen her away from him.

He would keep her here with him, this time. Or go with her, this time...

"John?" He heard a voice. Shivering. He was so cold.

He opened his eyes. Shaw was there.

"I've been calling you, John, to check on you. You look like Hell. You're burning up..."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: _Golden Vision_ ; "I've got this"  
**

* * *

 **Waters north of Portland, November, 2014**

Forty days out and on the last leg of his voyage. The tramp ship, _Golden Vision_ , out of Hong Kong, sailed in calm seas today, after heavy weather had tossed her and her crew for three nights and days. Today, in sunshine and clear air, the crew scurried to repair damage, drain and swab the usual places where seawater had found its way in the storm.

Ship's Captain, Li, kept watch from the Bridge and shouted orders and complaints down to the men on the deck. Smoke from a cigarette trailed from its glowing tip into his eyes. His thin face was furrowed by scowl-lines from the smoke and irritation with his crew. Li's eyes found Ping pushing water off the deck, in the footsteps of another deckhand. He pulled harder on his cigarette, tip flaring red, watching the man. What was he doing?

He called down to Ping on the loudspeaker, complaining. In Mandarin he yelled at the slacker – go work in another section, not there where the work was already done. Ping looked up at Li, unfazed, and moved off to another spot on the deck. Li nodded – he had spent the last forty days making an example of Ping in front of the others, riding him, criticizing him at every turn. The crew avoided him now, didn't speak to him, wouldn't eat at the same table. He would take his meal, alone, and then go up on deck by himself. One of the crew said he had seen Ping up at sunrise doing some kind of kung fu on the deck.

Soon they would dock in Portland, and then the tramp would head back for Hong Kong, with her next cargo of machined metal parts. But for now, Li would keep discipline tight. He threw the stub of his cigarette into a dented rusty can heaped with more at his elbow, and reached for another. Ping looked up just in time to see the quick flame of the lighter in the darkened Bridge, and the brief outline of the Captain through the glass. He was nearly there, at his destination. He pushed his rough mop over salt spray on the deck.

In the waning light of late afternoon, Ping made his way below-decks, down steep narrow ladders, to his bunk. He had rolled the thin mattress and moved it with his belongings to another sleeping space – away from the crew, near the engine room. It was loud there with the constant whine and vibration of the engines, but it was more private. In the corner of his mattress by his feet, he had opened the seam on the side. He felt inside the opening and reassured himself that his papers and the photograph were still there.

From the steppes where he lived, he had traveled to Beijing for a meeting with his benefactors. He had left there with money and instructions, headed for Hong Kong, where he had found the forger, with his papers. Rough, coarse men from a street gang had brought him to the Captain, who accepted the envelope full of money from his benefactors. And then he made his way to the _Golden Vision_ to depart.

Forty days at sea, and two more until Portland; Portland, where he would be sent by the scowling Captain to tie-up at the dock, heave the heavy rope over stanchions. Li would be standing on the Bridge, watching him, smoking his cigarette with the smoke trailing into his eyes and the scowl on his face. And then Ping would turn, with a small bow toward the Captain, and back away into the crowd on the pier. For a moment, then, the scowl would ease, Li's contract fulfilled. Cargo delivered.

 **Manhattan, October, 2014 **

Shaw heard footsteps coming close. Reese. He opened her car door and folded himself into the passenger seat next to her. She looked up at him with a raised eyebrow and he smiled in anticipation of the wisecrack coming.

"You're my backup?" Shaw said with feigned disdain. And in that slow, whisper-voice he liked so much:

"I was worried about you, Shaw." Then, smiling again, "you haven't been yourself since that punch in the head."

"I should have let him shoot you – save me the trouble of doing it myself," she said, smiling back sweetly. They sat in the car, watching up at his window, and then after twenty minutes, the light went on up there. Reese nodded to Shaw and they got out of the car. She went first, Reese noticed. She did seem different, ruffled somehow. He followed her in, and up the stairs to the top floor. Shaw knocked on his door. Reese pulled his badge from his pocket. The door opened and Shaw's POI was there, concern in his eyes with strangers at his door.

"Detectives Riley and Shaw, NYPD," Reese said, lifting his badge to the man. He looked relieved for a moment, and stepped back, gesturing for them to come in. Reese went first, past Shaw at the doorway, and glanced around at the room, two rooms, really. The entryway was a small separate space, like a walk-in closet size, and then beyond, the living room with shelves of books on three walls. It reminded Reese of Harold's office. These two would get along.

"How can I help you, Detectives?"

"Where have you been the last few hours?" Shaw asked him, her eyes on his eyes. They were dark eyes, with a fringe of dark long lashes, she noticed. And they looked up, troubled, to her.

"I was in a park, waiting for an acquaintance to come for a meeting. He never showed." Reese was moving in the room, glancing at the table full of papers, journal articles, in English and Italian. And in the corner, the turntable, teak wood, with the shelves of vinyl records for it, carefully arranged, at its side.

"And what happened when your acquaintance didn't show?" Reese asked, his back to the man, as he continued his walk through the living room.

"I heard a loud noise in the dark. It startled me, frightened me, actually, and I left." His eyes closed for a moment, the fringe of his lashes more apparent, then, to Shaw. Reese turned and caught sight of Shaw watching the man's face. He waited, and she didn't pick up with the next question. She was watching him. Reese cleared his throat, and Shaw came out of it.

"I want to show you a picture, a picture of a woman. We want to know if you recognize her," Shaw said, and held her phone out, with the picture she had snapped of the woman on the ground.

"What happened to her?" he said, and Shaw could see the look in his eyes, like when someone sees the picture of a car crash. Hard to look away, concerned perhaps, but not more. He didn't know her, Shaw said to herself.

"She followed you for hours, and was taking pictures of you all day." Shaw opened another set of photos on her phone and held it out to him, swiping through them. He was surprised, but not too surprised, she thought.

"I don't know her," he said, looking from Shaw to Reese.

"She seemed to know you," Shaw said. "She tried to kill you in the park." His eyes swung back to her, and he brought his hands up to his mouth, palms together, fingers touching in front of his lips. Shaw was watching him. Reese could see the look in her eyes. There was something different about her.

He walked into the next room and looked around, leaving the two of them to talk. He could hear them as he moved through the dining room, the kitchen, and the bedroom. On the way back, he checked the second bathroom off the library. Nothing amiss.

Shaw was listening to his story when Reese returned. He was an engineer, a researcher in the energy field, and he had been working on a project that was going to blow the lid off the energy crisis in the world, if it panned out.

He was an American, but he had been working overseas in Italy when an article appeared in an Italian journal. It had attracted little attention. But as soon as he had read it, the world changed. A serendipitous find, by a lay person in Italy, playing around with some experiments in his garage, had thrown everything the scientific world knew about energy production into the trash. It was profound, as simple as a sintered metal and hydrogen. And, if it really worked as the paper suggested, it would solve the energy crisis, stop pollution, prevent the need for nuclear reactors, oil production at its massive scale, on and on. The world would truly be a better place, day by day, as the old was replaced by the new. It had to be protected, this idea. Some people would do anything to stop it.

Reese was watching Shaw. There was a look in her eyes that he had rarely seen. With Bear sometimes, it was there; and once, when she was protecting a tough, street-wise little girl who had wandered into trouble with the Russian mob. He had seen it then, too.

He interrupted. "Sorry, I have to take this," he said, lifting his phone in the air to the two of them. He walked into the dining room, with his back to the two, and murmured to his phone for a minute; then he turned back to them.

"Shaw, I have to go. Fusco needs me back at the Park. Can you finish up here?" he asked.

"I've got this," Shaw said, a nod to him, and a knowing smile. He was good, so very good, she thought to herself, as he left the two of them alone, together.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Crates; _Famiglia;_ Time For Ourselves**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

Reese could see Leon in the reflection of the tall glass window where he was standing. Behind him, across the street, Leon was waiting for him, unaware that he was watching. Reese moved slowly along the window, as if browsing at the wares, but watching Leon in the reflection instead. He looked miserable to Reese. Flushed. Coughing. Leon looked sick. Reese turned around and joined a group crossing the street, then headed over towards him.

"You look like you could use some chicken soup, Leon," Reese said in his whisper-voice as he stepped into the shelter of the store-front, set back from the street.

"I'm sure it's the flu," Leon said, and began to hack and sputter in front of Reese.

"I hope you don't think you can take the day off, Leon. Come on, let's walk." Reese turned around and stepped out onto the sidewalk, with Leon muttering under his breath, trying to catch up.

"We analyzed the drive you brought last time, Leon, and it's not enough. I hope you did better today, because you're running out of time."

"Look, Reese, it should only be a few more days, and I'll know where Greer is planning to go next. He's been packing up crates in the buildings on the grounds. I've seen them getting loaded onto unmarked trucks, and leaving at night. Something big is going down. I'm sure of it. But I don't know what it is yet." He started to cough again, and he was holding his head.

" – Splitting headache...muscles...hurt all over," Leon was saying, but Reese wasn't listening.

"And the device?" Reese asked.

"Done. I followed the instructions and set it up this morning, before I came here." Reese heard Harold's voice in his earpiece:

"Yes, Mr. Tao is telling us the truth. I can see the device now, initializing."

"So, Leon, I expect you to find out what's in those crates on the trucks for next time. And Greer's next move. One week, maybe less. I'll let you know when and where. Take care of that cough, Leon." Reese sped up, his long legs carrying him quickly away from the struggling Leon, who stopped on the sidewalk, watching him accelerate away. He was muttering under his breath, and then started to cough again. He put his hand across his forehead, checking for fever.

"I think I need to see a doctor," Leon said, and turned around, heading back the way he had come.

 **Manhattan, October, 2014**

"So have the two of you worked together for very long?" Shaw was confused for a moment.

"You mean Ree– Riley and I? No, a couple of years, I guess."

"You know he cares for you very much?" His eyes were soft, smiling.

"Riley? He's more like a big brother – you know, the annoying kind," she said and he laughed. She had meant it, but she laughed with him, anyway. He looked at her, with a little sparkle in his eye.

"I would like to make something for you. Would you like some coffee, tea, sparkling water?" She couldn't decide, and he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the kitchen.

"If you like espresso, I have the perfect accompaniment. Made it myself just yesterday, and it will be just right to eat today. It is better the day after, you know?" Shaw watched him pull ingredients from the tall cabinets, and in a little while the smell of espresso filled the kitchen. Two small white cups sat on the counter between the two of them, and he was adding a small twist of lemon peel to the top of each, smiling up at her with the anticipation. And then, two slices of almond, lemon and ricotta cake, light and delicious, on small matching plates were next. He pushed one cup and plate across to her, and handed her a fork.

"The lemon is very intense in this one – I love that," he said, watching her reaction as she tasted it.

He smiled, and his eyes crinkled with delight as she let the bite of cake melt on her tongue, the flavors unrolling across it: sweet, sour, mixed with the almond. He sipped espresso, and did his own taste test, rolling his eyes with pleasure at the result. They sat together, eating and sipping espresso from the tiny cups.

"My father owns an import business. He and my mother travel all over Italy, all over Europe, to find the best of the best each region has to offer, and then they bring it here, to us." Shaw could see how his eyes held so much feeling for them. He was smiling, and his eyes were far away as he thought of them.

"You're close – with your folks?" she asked. He laughed, and his eyes danced as he confessed:

"We're Italian – we love Italy, where we grew up, food, wine, and – especially – _famiglia._ " Shaw watched his face. Clear, honest eyes.

"I am named for my father. Marco Bruzzese. Bruzzese means "a person of Abruzzo" – a region in the middle and southern part of Italy. It is the most beautiful place in the world. Tall mountain peaks, rolling hills, beaches. We have it all right there. We come from a city called Pescara on the eastern coast of Abruzzo. I must take you there – you would love it."

He was suddenly quiet, and he looked intently at Shaw. She held her fork in the air.

"What?" she asked him.

"It was you, in the Park tonight, yes?" His eyes were solemn, dark. Shaw held her breath for a moment and then nodded. "It was me. I was there when you went to the Park to meet your friend, and I saw her watching you in the shadows." He nodded.

"And what then?" Shaw took another breath. Here it goes, she thought.

"I saw her kneel down, and her arm came up with the gun. She was pointing at you, and I stepped in to make her look at me, instead."

"You were brave to do that."

"It's just the training. You do what you have to do. She aimed at me when I got her attention, and I fired. That's all," Shaw said with her eyes steady on him. He nodded, and then looked down at her hands.

"You saved my life tonight," he said, and his eyes came up to hers. Dark eyes, like deep pools, with the fringe of long dark lashes. She didn't answer. He reached across the counter and took one of her hands in both of his, bending her wrist down, and touching the back of her hand with his lips. She watched him, not sure what she should say.

He let her hand go, and walked around the counter, towards her, standing very close for a long moment, then reaching out to wrap his arm around her waist. His other hand reached to her face, touching the bruising around her eye, softly, with his thumb. His eyes explored it, concern in his expression, and then he looked into her eyes with his.

Gently, he pulled her toward him, brushing her against him, and then he walked her back with him to the library. In the middle of the room they stopped and he held up his index finger; " _momento_ ," he said, and turned to the shelves of music. Above the LP's were CD's of more music, and he reached up for one, took the CD from its case and pushed it into the player. The remote for the player was in his hand and he brought it back while he leaned over to lower the lights. And then he stepped in close to Shaw again, reaching out to her.

"Will you have this dance with me, my savior?" His eyes were on her, soft and certain. She nodded.

He aimed the remote at the player and pressed the buttons, until the song he wanted her to hear began to play. In French, a familiar woman's voice started singing, softly, tenderly, " _J'Attendais_ " while he held Shaw in his arms – delicately at first, then closer, as the meaning of the song overcame him. She heard him softly singing the words of the song, like in a French duet, close to her ear. In French:

 _I had been waiting, I had been waiting  
_ _the land of your body, the touch of your hands  
_ _my sweet compass, my North,  
_ _the reason for my tomorrows..._

And, after, a second song, "The Prayer," a duet in English and Italian, just for her. Marco's voice was in her ear, in her head:

 _let this be our prayer  
when shadows fill our day_  
 _lead us to a place_  
 _guide us with your grace_  
 _give us faith so we'll be safe..._

The two of them were moving to the sound of this music, revolving, spinning slowly, in the space around them, in the quiet of the night.

 **Washington D.C., October, 2014**

One ring...two rings...three rings.

"This is Shaw. You know what to do."

Root looked down at the face of her phone staring at her. She listened as the robo-voice told her to leave a message if she wanted to. She did want to:

"Hi, Love. It's me. Just wanted to hear your voice. I've been thinking of you, and how we said we'd take a little time for ourselves when we got back. I have the perfect little hideaway. Give me a call when you can. Love you."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Enough; Losing Ground; Long Way To New York**

* * *

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

"I think it would be a wonderful idea. Thank you." Grace was sitting on the couch in the living room with Harper and Fusco, who had asked her if she wanted to take a short tour of her old apartment. As it turned out, no one was living there now, and they had special permission from the owner to offer the tour to Grace, since she had been a prior owner herself.

The three stood up and put on coats and scarves. The wind had picked up today, blustery, with swirling purple clouds that looked like the promise of snowflakes. Manhattan was buzzing with talk of snow. It was tough when it snowed a lot in Manhattan. Miles and miles of narrow streets full of traffic and parked cars, pedestrians, buses, cabs. It was a mess.

Once the crews had plowed down the middle of the street, the snow was pressed even higher on the street-side of the cars. They were entombed in snow, which had to be hand-brushed and scraped from the cars and from the spaces around them before movement was possible. And, if the crews could get in to clear the streets of snow, where would it all go, the snow? Caravans of dump trucks would carry it to the water's edge, and leave it to drown in cold saltwater.

Owning a car in Manhattan was expensive. Parking it was a nightmare, especially in snow.

Winston was on his way to drive them. Grace smiled. She enjoyed him so much. He was kind, and he had stories of his travels all over the world that kept her laughing. He was a natural storyteller, and she enjoyed how his gestures and his sound-effects enhanced the stories. He was a delight, and so generous with his time. He seemed to make himself available as soon as they requested him.

It would be good to go outside today, even in the harsher weather. Grace was getting a little antsy again in the apartment. In Italy she had friends; she had a quiet life that she adored. She traveled and went sightseeing, and she worked with children who had had such terrible things happen to them. It gave her comfort to know that she could help, in her small way, to give some peace and relief to them.

It seemed that this part of her memory was still intact. She remembered the school, the faces of the children, her colleagues. But so much was still lost to her. It was like a patchwork quilt, with some blocks vibrant with color, and others dull and blank. Every once in a while, a block that had been turned off would begin to flicker, blink on weakly, and over time, would come alive again. Her memories were gradually filling in, but there was the sense of one area in her memory that was different from the rest, so densely blackened. It was as if it had been purged permanently. She could feel it, like a dark spot in the sky that blotted out the stars behind it. You could only know of its presence by the absence of light.

In the car, Winston was talking with Fusco in the front seat, and Harper was chatting with her about the holidays coming soon. The blustery weather made it more real, Thanksgiving, and the rest. It was a blur as Thanksgiving approached. Christmas music was already playing in some stores, and on the TV commercials. Grace was dismayed. She loved Thanksgiving, even more than Christmas. The food, friends dropping by, her trip to the grave sites of her Aunt Cora and Uncle Max. Ah, she had almost forgotten that. She must make plans to go there.

She liked to sit there with them for a little while, and tell them what was happening in her life lately. Oh, well, maybe not this time. She didn't need to share all of this drama with them. She would just tell them the updates on the kids she was working with in Italy. It was getting to be time for her to go back there. She felt like things were winding down here, and the Detectives from the NYPD must be close to being done with her by now. There wasn't much else she could think of to tell them. And she could always get back in touch with them if she remembered anything else of value.

Ah, they were there, at her old apartment. Winston pulled over to the curb while they got out onto the sidewalk. They walked together to the steps, and she looked up at the door and the windows she had looked through to see the world going by, when she was young. She was suddenly a little shaky inside. It had been some time ago that she left for Italy, after something had happened – what was it, now?

Detective Fusco opened the door for them, and they walked inside. She smiled and almost burst out in tears – it looked so much like she remembered it. Her paintings were still there, on the walls, where she had hung them. And the old chair where Uncle Max liked to sit, near the good lamp, when he would read at night. And, in the next room, she could see the old sewing machine Aunt Cora had kept, in the dining room, where the light came in at that tall window. They folded it down when company came, and used the wood top like a buffet.

Grace walked through room after room, while Harper and Fusco trailed behind. They could see her expression as she wandered, picking up this or that small item. Her eyes were shining when she turned back to them.

"So many memories here. Nothing seems changed. The new owners have kept it just like it was."

"He's a bachelor, Grace, and not so much interested in decorating. He found it comfortable for him just the way it was," Harper said. Grace nodded, taking one last look around.

And then she saw it. On the mantel. A photograph of her and a man. It can't be! This is impossible! Cruel! Why would anyone do that? Ruin a beautiful memory with this cruel joke – she turned away, and told the two Detectives that she needed to leave. The man in the photograph with her, on the mantel, smiling, with his arm around her, was the same man who had tormented her in Bethesda, when she was a prisoner!

"Why is this here? Who would do this? It's so cruel. I'd like to leave now." She walked out through the living room, and opened the front door. She hurried down the steps, with her eyes welling with tears. Enough. She had had enough. It was time to leave. In fact, it was time to leave New York, get back to her life, her real life, in Rome...

Back in the apartment, Fusco and Harper looked over at a figure in the next room. They were silent, as they watched him. It was a mistake to let her see the picture. They thought it would remind her of when she had been in love, in a different time, before the ferry boat bombing, before Italy, before Greer.

Harold dropped his head down. He turned away in the shadows, heading for the door at the back. They saw him reach up to lift his collar and adjust his hat. It was suddenly very cold...

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

Reese was dragging. It was only mid-afternoon, but he was ready to leave. He wasn't recovered yet from the flu, or whatever had hit him last week. He should have had his follow up meeting with Leon already, and he had cases at work to write up for the Captain, but he was out of gas.

He sat down at his desk in the squad room and leaned back against the wall. He was alone in the room. It was strange, to be empty like that, at this time of day. It felt more like the middle of the night, when the coffee had boiled off in the pot to a black sludge that had that "not-if-you-value-your-stomch-lining" smell to it. Some of these guys actually drank it like that anyway. Suicide.

He still wasn't sleeping. Dreaming. He was having dreams that woke him right up out of sleep, but he couldn't really remember what they were. His heart would be pounding, though, when he woke up. Sometimes, it was better if he got up and walked around, to change things. If he was lucky, he could catch another hour or two before he had to get up for work. He was cranky, and irritable. The rest of the team was noticing, and they weren't keeping it a secret. Nobody got much slack on this team. You had to get things done, whatever it took.

When he thought about it, that was his rule. He had started that rule when he first got here – a throwback from his old days in the Rangers, and for sure, in the CIA. Just like there was "no crying in baseball," there was no whining on the team. People played hurt – that's the job.

Reese was aware of his thoughts, but he was leaning his head back on the wall next to his chair, and his eyes were heavy. He just needed a little cat nap, and he'd be ready to put in another 3 or 4 hours to push through some of the backlog.

His eyes were heavier, and then they were closing, against his will. He was letting himself sink into the chair, and breathe a little deeper. Soon, he was drifting off, and he could just hear the sound of the coffeepot clicking every once in a while, as the heat came on to cook the contents a little more.

"John, you need to go home," she said. He shook his head, no.

"No, I'm okay. I just need a minute," he said back.

"You're not sleeping any more. You're exhausted. You're still sick. You look like death warmed-over. That was a joke – " Reese frowned. What was going on? Who was that?

He opened his eyes, and she was sitting there at her desk. Carter. She was leaning back in her chair, looking at him, shaking her head at him. He sat up a little.

"What are you doing here?" he said, foggy and still half-asleep.

"Just came to check on you. You didn't look so good the last time I saw you. Not much better today, I see." She looked him up and down, and shook her head again.

"What is it going to take, John?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. Was he dreaming?

"No, John, I'm really here. I came because you're sliding backwards. You're losing ground, John. If you don't start to change things, it's going to accelerate. Like a runaway train." She was staring at him, waiting for him to say something, but he didn't know what to say.

"You need to move on, John. You can't stay here – in this dark place. You need to move forward, make plans, get a life." She was staring at him again, but he had nothing to say.

"It's going to get harder, if you don't change something." She sat there, watching him. And then that half-smile. And then the one that he was hoping for. The one that said she felt something for him. He took it in, but it was like an arrow shot to the chest, too.

She was right – what was it going to take?

Reese looked up, ready to engage her again, but her desk was empty. She was gone. He looked around the squad room for her, but it was empty, too. Just the click of the coffeepot, cycling again.

 **Portland Oregon, November, 2014**

In the darkness, he could see the cars rolling slowly on the track, and then there was a jerk and a heavy metallic sound, as the three cars coupled to the rest of the long line of freight cars. This was his chance. He stood up and started walking fast along with the cars. He would pick the best place to grab on and swing himself up before the train started to gain too much speed.

He saw the handle coming up, and grabbed on as the car was going by. He was up on it now, and it was carrying him off the ground, hanging on a little metal step. He swung over to the decking, and grabbed on to the door frame. When he was sure he had it, and wouldn't fall off, down onto the track below the car, he let go of the handle, and pulled himself up and inside the car. It was drafty, but if he moved to the end of the car on the same side as the front of the train, it might be a little sheltered from the wind coming past. He'd have to try it and see. If it didn't work in this car, he could try another when they slowed down again later.

Ping opened his backpack, and took out some food. It had lost its heat now, but he had already eaten most of it when it was hot before. He would just finish it up for now, and then try to get some sleep before the next stop. He might have to hide himself, if the trainmen were checking the cars.

It was a long way to New York.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Half the perfect world; "She's good, Root"; A flight away; Sketch(rated T for descriptions of war injuries)**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

It tickled. His hair hanging down like that on her bare skin, long-escaped from the band that kept it neatly at the back. She giggled right out loud, and so he did it even more, shaking his long hair so the ends would just brush her skin. She couldn't take it – since she was a kid, so ticklish like that – her one weakness. She was defenseless against the tickle. Mercy!

She swung him over her and down next to her. Ah, better – now she could get even! She attacked his neck, nuzzling in and he laughed out loud, too. Scrunching up his shoulders, he pulled back away, and she dove closer, at his neck again. He had no choice – rolling over onto her, to keep her from his neck. Smiling. His eyes on hers. Delight.

And in the background, a soft woman's voice, so slow, languid, like her home in Louisiana. Her voice made them think of singers from the '40s. And, in the dark, she sang to them:

 _The candles burned_  
 _The moon went down_  
 _The polished hill_  
 _The milky town_  
 _Transparent, weightless, luminous_  
 _Uncovering the two of us_  
 _On that fundamental ground_  
 _Where love's unwilled, unleashed, unbound_  
 _And half the perfect world is found._..

 **Washington, D.C., November, 2014**

She hesitated just one moment. She didn't want to call him. The Big Lug. But she had to. She had tried everyone else, and no one knew where she was. Shaw was off the grid. She'd left messages on her phone. What was going on? Root clicked his number and waited.

"Reese."

"Hey, there. It's Root – but, of course, you know that already –" There was a long pause.

"Uh – I've been trying to get to Sameen. She's not answering her phone. I've left messages. I called everyone, and no one knows where she is. Is everything alright up there?"

Reese hesitated. This was going to be tricky. How to say this.

"She had a rough day today, Root," he started. Okay, that was good so far.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, her POI got ambushed today, and she had to take out the shooter."

"Is she okay?" Root said, with a little too much sound in her voice.

"She's good, Root." Root had hoped for a little more explanation; but then, it was Reese, after all.

"She probably just packed it in – and went to bed early," he said.

Not too bad, he thought. Root might buy it. And there was some truth in it. He hoped.

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

There was no stopping her. Grace. That look was in her eyes. They tried to talk her out of it, but she was leaving. She had been on the phone. All the arrangements were made. Her passport was re-issued. Her flight was booked. She was packed.

Winston had just brought her back from the visit, grave-side, with her Aunt Cora and Uncle Max. She had kept it brief, and just gave them the good news, from her work in Rome. Some of the kids that she thought were beyond repair had started to respond. She had started adding music to the art therapy. They were singing songs that the kids remembered from back home, and suddenly, everything had changed for the ones who were so hard to reach before. Nothing before had cracked into the hard, sullen shells that they had become, staring out with dark eyes from the prisons of their memories.

But she had started playing their music, folk songs, children's songs, and then, with a little fear in her heart, a lullaby. It brought tears to her eyes, to remember Ali, seven, but as small as a four-year-old from lack of food, climbing into her lap with the lullaby playing, and resting his head on her heart, his dark eyes recalling another woman's arms around him, rocking him, her dark eyes full of love for him...

She needed to get back to them. It was breaking her heart to stay here, when she could be back there in Rome with them.

Winston was waiting for her at the front door. He looked at her single bag. Was that all she was taking, he'd asked. That's all. Her life was back there, not here. What she loved, what she needed, was only a flight away.

In the airport, the usual delays and inconveniences, but somehow, it was just fine. She was going home, and it didn't seem so hard to wait this little bit longer. In the main terminal, before she had gone through the line to surrender her luggage and then through the body scanner, she had stopped to pick out a book for the flight, but nothing appealed. She had stood there browsing, and had the sense of eyes on her. Looking around, there was nothing that she could see, no one meeting her eyes.

She wandered to the security area. Still, there was the sense of eyes on her. She looked up at the departure board – her flight was on time. The uniformed man behind the scanner gestured for her to come forward, and she didn't hesitate. Soon she was through all the bother, and she was walking off into the deeper parts of the terminal, where Harold could not follow. He watched her, until he could not see her any longer.

 **Manhattan, November, 2014- rated T for descriptions of injuries  
**

There was an empty tumbler on the coffee table. Two drinks, man-sized, of whiskey, straight. He was still awake. He took a deep breath, and exhaled whiskey fumes out into the air around him. He'd been through worse, in his life. It would pass. And then he could get on with things, like before. If he just didn't try to think about things too much, it was almost like before.

What time was it? Two in the morning. He had to get some sleep. He had the meeting with Leon tomorrow – no, today. Leon had actually called _him_ , left a message that there was something he needed to tell him. They needed to meet. Reese had called him back with the place and the time. Now, he wished he had made it a little later in the day. He was going to feel like crap if he didn't get to sleep soon. He got up and stretched. The lights were off in the house, and it was just the light from the street outside coming in the high windows above him.

He padded across the living room floor in his thick socks, back to his bedroom, and dropped down on the bed, throwing the comforter over him. There was a little burn in his chest from the whiskey in his empty stomach, refluxing up when he laid down. He sat up and gathered a couple of pillows together, and then leaned back against them. Better. But the burn was still there in his chest. Just stop thinking about it. It'll go away...

Who were they sending him, the Rangers? They were fighting a war, here, and they were sending him little kids! Look at this guy – he must be twelve. Red hair, freckles, big feet, like he hadn't grown into them all the way yet. But he had shown a bunch of pictures all around of his kids back at home, Kansas or something. Rugrats, he'd called them. There were two of them, and God help them, they looked like the spitting image of him.

He had one of those big grins, with big teeth, and a gap in the center, between the two front ones. Sketch. Everyone called him Sketch because he carried around a sketch book and drew everything he saw. He showed them the drawings, and they were actually pretty good. He liked drawing people, especially kids. He had a way with the eyes. He made them big in the drawings, with lots of expression. Reese was surprised when he found out the kid could shoot, too. And he handled himself pretty well out there, with the guys. He kind of grew on you after a while. He was going to be alright. He just needed to pay attention to the rest of them. They'd been there for a while, and they could show him the ropes. Sketch was alright.

They were loading up, and Reese was watching them all get into the Hummers. It was hot, and everyone was complaining about it, but he had told them to stop whining and get in. They were rolling in a line down the road, a dirt road, and then they got to the edge of a town that looked like it hadn't changed much since the Middle Ages. Up ahead, there was a house on the left, with some little kids in the front. They jumped up, pointing, as the line of Hummers was approaching, and Reese remembered the looks on their faces as they came closer. They were excited. A little boy was smiling at him and waving. He nodded his head at the little boy and smiled. Sketch would have his pad out, drawing like mad, if he was there with him at that moment.

And then he heard the sound, just after the front of his Hummer lifted up and something was spraying the whole front of it with debris. At the front of the line, in slow motion, as he was recoiling with the blast, he could see the first one lifting up and flipping in the air, then getting lost in the blast dirt and smoke.

The next thing he knew, he was looking into the passenger side of what was left of the Hummer. Other guys were looking after the driver, and Reese could hear him screaming about his legs, and the guys were calling for a medic. Reese could see the back of the helmet as he was getting there, and he could see the bottom of the Hummer was ripped apart inside, shredded by the IED that had gone off underneath it. The Hummers were not armored there, and an IED would take out two or three, maybe everyone inside.

He tried to pull the door open, but the metal was deformed into a bulging, perforated mess, and he couldn't get it open. The window was blown open, too, and Reese reached in to try and get his guy out. There was a giant hole in the floor in front of the passenger. The bomb must have gone off right under that spot and ripped through the metal like butter. He leaned in to pull him out, and Reese could see his face. Red hair. Freckles. He wrapped his arm around the kid's chest and under his armpit to pull him out, and as he leaned back with the kid in his arms, the body lifted out like a feather, and he fell backwards with the kid's chest in his arms, down to the ground. He heard himself yelling for a medic, and when he finally got there, he looked at Reese with that look that he'd seen too often. Nothing he could do.

He had gotten up, and then he realized what he was looking at. The kid was blown in half while he was sitting there in the seat. Reese was covered in his blood. The driver on the other side was still screaming, and he was looking at his guys pulling remains out of the Hummer next to him. The smell of blood and entrails, burnt flesh, and smoke was in the air now.

Back down the road at the house they just passed he could see his guys dragging someone out of the house. They were holding a cellphone up, and punching the man. Reese ran down there. His men saw him coming and they were all talking at once. They thought the man they had dragged out of the house had used the cellphone to detonate the IED. He looked over at the man, bent down with his arms behind him, on one knee. Reese could feel the blood rushing up into him. If this was the one who had done this – and then he saw the child, the little boy he had seen on the way in, smiling and waving, now crying, reaching out for the man on his knees. He looked up into Reese's eyes, and Reese could see the look of terror in his dark eyes - what was he going to do?


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Closer to Madness; So many possibilities**

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 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Skies Over the Atlantic, November, 2014**

For hours the two just sat in silence. Just the whisper sound of the engines to hint where they were. Finch's jet was winging them back from the trip to Italy, where Reese's team had met with him. Even though they weren't wearing fatigues any more, it was obvious they were Army. They'd stayed fit, disciplined, and the look in their eyes was the same as when they were deployed together in '01, in Afghanistan.

Reese had walked with them through the streets of Rome, getting the feel of the place, watching the lines of migrants on the streets in the sun, waiting, waiting. And under the awning near the train station, bodies of men and women, toddlers, small families, rested on any cover they had from the bare ground: cardboard, colorful shawls, anything they had. Down one side street in an ancient section of the city near the Vatican, a homeless old woman was washing clothes and hanging them to dry in the open air.

The faces were young and younger, African, Middle Eastern, hopeless. They were stranded there in Italy after surviving the trip from their homelands, blocked from moving on to France, the UK, Scandinavia. They waited. In small groups or in camps that sprung up near train stations that would have taken them on, they waited. Tens of thousands of them, with many, many more on the way; there was plenty of tragedy on the high seas every day, plenty of bodies washing up on the shores...

The men had spoken in hushed voices of the mission: surveillance and protection. Reese had told them of the woman they were there to protect: a teacher, from the U.S., working in a school with the migrants; caught up in a vicious intrigue with a bad guy from the States who was ex-MI-6. Reese had sat with them for hours, giving just enough background to make sense of the mission, and then he had shown them the photos of the main players. He had ended by looking around, in the eyes of each one of them, his blood brothers from another war, and told them "whatever it takes." There was no question. He could see the solemn promise in their eyes.

As he sat in his seat in the jet, Reese was remembering the faces of his men, memories of them together in Afghanistan, kicking down doors, their boot-steps inside, the fear in the family's faces, turned sullen when they left. And then he remembered the faces of the migrants on the streets, in the parks, at the train stations. Their eyes. He remembered the look in their eyes. Always on the edge. So close to sliding. All sides were so much closer to madness. For Reese's men in Italy it would be honor against chaos, duty against madness.

Harold had bought newspapers and scanned them for the pulse of the city. There were the rumblings of citizens who were outraged at the rest of Europe and the U.S. for shirking the weight of this crisis. Italy would go to its knees with this if there was no help. They would turn away the ships of migrants plucked from the seas, not let them land on their shores, if there was no help. They would send back the migrants to their homelands, break up their camps, put them in jail. It was fear and loathing run amok, and Harold thought of Grace, in the middle.

He had traveled to her school, carefully, so he wouldn't be seen. He just wanted a glimpse of her, to be able to picture her in her world there, so far from him. From the window across the street, Reese had let him into the empty canteen, and Harold had climbed the stairs for the best view. He could see down into the courtyard, where the children were playing, kicking an old soccer ball among them. He could see Grace at the side, sitting in a chair, surrounded by dark-eyed children who were listening to a story, and she was raising a picture to show them a whale. Their eyes were round with wonder that such a creature could exist.

She had been back in the U.S. with a sick child, she said, and then, when he was well again, she had taken him to see the whales. She was so happy, though, to be back with them again. She had missed them so much. Could they try and draw the whale? Did they want to know more about this gentle giant? She would tell them all about it...

Reese could see the look in Harold's eyes. That far-away look. That If-I-could-only-turn-back-time look. Reese knew about that one.

Harold and Reese spoke little on the trip back home, both lost in their own thoughts. But they both felt the pace changing. An urgency was there now, that wasn't there before. It was time to strike. Long past time...

Leon had come with a warning for Reese. Greer was rolling out new servers to hubs all over the country. New servers meant advanced capabilities, and the window to attack might be closing rapidly. Greer was returning to New York to orchestrate the upgrade from headquarters. Harold had called in his team, too, and they were all assembling in New York as soon as he returned from Italy. Let's go, he thought...

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

Her eyes were on Shaw. So, there she was. Early morning, and she was there in the living room, drinking espresso from a tiny white cup. And her eyes were soft, smiling, focused on someone there with her.

And then her head tipped up and the someone rose and walked toward her. Then, an arm, well-muscled, and a back, unclothed. He leaned down to her, long dark hair sliding forward, shaking slightly, touching her skin. Her head went back, and she was laughing out loud. Shaw. Laughing out loud. Pulling his hair in her hands, smiling, she pulled him down to her, below the window ledge, where Root could no longer see...

She turned away and walked across the rooftop to the access door. How to feel. So many possibilities...


	13. Chapter 13

Part 3:

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 **Chapter 13: Turning point; Unconditional love**

* * *

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

Harold was just waking, and he noticed that for the first time in a long time, he felt lighter in his body, clearer in the head, more focused. What a difference! Now, it was so obvious to him how hobbled he had become – how much effort everything had taken – before this evening.

Jules was gone from the room; she had left him with the orange salt lamp lit, and music playing in a loop around him. He was on a padded table, but not the one she used Upstate. That was a stationary table, made of solid oak, and was far too heavy to transport, though Harold would have gladly done so for her if she told him she needed it.

No, she had a sturdy, lightweight portable table that she could carry around with straps. It folded in half and took up minimal space. Everything she needed fit, folded up, inside the table, well, except for the salt lamp. She had splurged and bought one for him at an eclectic bookstore up in the 50's on the East side of Manhattan, and she told him she would keep it there for him to use whenever he needed her to come down to Manhattan to treat him.

She let him watch her prepare the space for them to work. It was slow, deliberate, and interesting, even if he really didn't understand exactly what she was doing. She walked around the space first, very quiet, stopping to close her eyes in various places. Then he noticed that she had circled back to a few of the same places again; and again, stopped with her eyes closed.

Her hands were out in front of her, with her elbows bent and her palms facing forward, fingers pointing to the ceiling. He couldn't tell if she was sensing something through her hands, or maybe pushing something out into the room with her hands. With Jules, anything was possible. He had even tried to squint, with his eyes on the air space around her palms, and the light of the room illuminating them, to see if he could see anything coming off her hands. Silly, perhaps. There was no shimmering in the air, no glow, no change in the normal physics of the space around her hands. She had spoken of Healing Intention at their last meeting, but he was not able to see it, if it was there, around her hands.

She found the space where she wanted to set up her table; she made it up with a layer of thick padding on top of the already-padded tabletop, then the thick flannel sheets, and a small contoured pillow for his head and neck. Her music could be played on a machine in another room. It would be audible in there where she had the table set up, and she liked the sound quality. Better than her own unit at home, she had said with a smile.

Harold had toyed with the idea of telling her everything. She was completely unaware of everything he did with the Machine, his Team, about Grace, about Samaritan. But as soon as he had started to speak, she shook her head, no.

"I don't need for you to tell me in words, Harold. You wear it – here – '" she had said, gesturing to his body with her hands. "I can feel it. That's all of the story I need," she'd said.

"But don't you need me to tell you what's going on, Jules?" Harold asked.

"You've never _not_ told me, Harold." He didn't know how to feel about that, exactly. He felt like she was telling him that she could see into his most private thoughts, like he was naked in her presence. But, no, as he thought more about it, that wasn't true at all. He was a very private person, even with Jules. She just tuned in on a little different frequency than everyone else. She wasn't trying to bare his soul, mine him for information. She was smoothing him, filling up the voids, lowering the heat under the bubbling cauldrons before they boiled over and wrecked the place.

And this time, when he was lying on her table, and the lights were low, and her hands were on him, he tried to see if he could feel anything. There were no vibrations, no activity that he could sense in her hands. Except for heat. There was an incredible heat that came off her hands as the treatment went on. How did she do that? It wasn't just the heat from two bodies touching each other, warming themselves on each other. It was like a fever in her hands.

And the next thing he knew, he was drifting in space, comfortable, like looking at the photos of the cosmos, with the nebula drifting by.

He had asked her here today to help release him from the emotions he was feeling with all of the recent losses, his capture by Greer, his awareness of his part in Grace's capture and treatment. He could go on and on. It had heaped up, weighed him down to the point where he was paralyzed. He was ineffective.

Until he went to Italy with Reese – that was the turning point for him. He had begun to feel the motion of the next steps, of the plan they had made months before, beginning to unroll for their Team. It was time to deploy it. But he had to get out of his own way. He had to put his feelings, his pain, his doubts aside and become the Conductor of the orchestra that was about to perform the most complex symphony he had ever conceived. He had created a multi-layered score rich with innovation, subtlety and potency – with Arthur Claypool's guidance and direction. Arthur had given him the openings, the opportunities, to access the deepest recesses of Samaritan's internal code. He had offered to his long-time friend, Harold, the man who helped hide him and care for him in his final months of life, the way into Samaritan's heart and brain.

In a small hand-lettered box delivered to Harold on the day of Arthur's death, was a small device and instructions to destroy Arthur's most important and far-reaching creation: Samaritan. On the outside of the box, in shaky lettering from Arthur's declining skills as he was dying of brain cancer, were the words: _In Emergency, Break Glass_. Arthur had a sense of humor, even then.

Harold had spent the ensuing months studying the instructions, testing Arthur's device, and then assembling the team of people he would need to deploy The Fix. It was brilliant, it was decisive, it was persistent, and it was going to grind Samaritan to dust.

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

"This doesn't make sense."

"Agreed." Reese was shaking his head, though Fusco couldn't see him, on the phone. Fusco had just given him the name of the dead woman from the Park, the woman Shaw had shot to keep her POI alive that night. The name was the same as the one on the glass in Harold's office, under the picture next to Shaw's POI, Marco. But the face didn't match – only the name. Where was the issue? Who were these two women? Who was sending them after Marco? Shaw had been protecting him since that first night, maybe a little more closely than the Team expected, Reese thought to himself, with a small smile. Pity the fool who tried to interfere with that, he thought, and smiled again.

He would sit down with Harold when he got back from the meeting with – someone – Harold had not been forthcoming about any of the details. He said he was going to be tied up until the next day with an important meeting, and he had asked Reese to take care of Bear for the night. He hadn't had time to arrange boarding at the Vet. Reese was going to stay in the library office tonight. It might be a chance for a better night's sleep if he crashed on the couch with Bear tonight. Good ole Bear. Man's best friend.

Reese told Fusco he'd let Shaw know about the outcome so far. The plot thickened for her POI. Not that she would mind, Reese thought. He was heading home to pick up some things before he went over to the library office for dog-duty.

Bear was happy to see him when he got there, and Reese clipped his leash on his collar and the two went out for a little walk. When they got back inside, instead of Bear curling up on his dog bed in his usual place, he followed Reese over to the couch, where he had thrown his duffle bag. Bear jumped up onto the couch and nosed around at the bag, and then plopped down with his head and muzzle across the top of it. His eyes and eyebrows swiveled back and forth and he had what looked like a smile on his lips as Reese was coming back with a glass. He sat down and looked at Bear, with his head blocking access to the bottle of whiskey he had brought from his apartment, and said "hey, you're laying on my bag." Bear wasn't concerned. Reese smiled, and reached over, rubbing his head and ears with his free hand.

" _Braaf_ ," he said, telling Bear he was "good," and Bear rolled over onto his side, looking for a belly-rub next. Reese obliged, and then Bear got up to relocate himself closer to Reese. He stepped over his lap, and then laid down on the other side, right next to him, with his head on Reese's thigh, eyes swiveling again, as he settled in to watch his human.

Reese reached into his duffle bag, now that it was freed, and pulled out his bottle of whiskey, then poured a little into the glass. He leaned back and took a sip, rubbing Bear's head with his other hand. Boys' night in. Not so bad, Reese thought. He heard Bear take a deep breath in, and exhale in a long, breathy sigh. He took another sip and then sat the glass down on the coffee table.

Something caught his attention as he leaned forward, something in his peripheral vision. He looked over at the white flash, and realized it was the white sheet on the hospital bed that was folded up and rolled into a corner of the room. It was the one they had set up for him, when they had brought him here to recover after he almost bought it in the ambush with Joss. They had cleared out all the furniture, and Harold had created a hospital room right here. A trauma surgeon had gotten him through the first few days after he had finally collapsed trying to find and take out her killers. He had found the bastard who ordered the hit on Joss, and he had given him just a few moments to write out the escape plan for the one who had pulled the trigger. He would be next. Reese was going to take care of both, personally. But he was bleeding, and running out of time.

Harold and the team had found him just as he was raising his gun to finish the job. He still recalled Harold trying to stop him. His voice made him hesitate for just a moment, and then he had hit the deck, shock dropping his pressure so that he couldn't stand any longer, couldn't hold the gun steady.

"John, this is not what we do," Harold had said to him, near his ear. It sounded like he was far away, like at the other end of a tunnel. He didn't focus on what Harold was saying. His mission was to take out the bastards who'd killed Joss. He saw himself pulling the trigger, again and again, but nothing happened. The gun was empty. And then he knew he couldn't do any more. He was near dying, losing consciousness, in shock.

He didn't remember anything more after that until he woke up in the hospital bed, in this room, days later. They told him he had been awake, but he was incoherent, aggressive, and they had had to sedate him to keep themselves safe. He didn't remember any of it. And, by then, Shaw had taken over from the surgeon, and she was lightening the sedation so she could see if his brain had come through the blood loss, the shock and low perfusion, or whether he was going to be a "tall vegetable," as she had told him with her usual warm, compassionate bedside manner. Shaw had kept him alive, had put up with his mouth when he was out of his mind with grief. It was a bad time for all of them. He wasn't the only one suffering. Joss had meant a lot to all of them.

Reese reached over for his glass, and downed the rest of it in one big hit. He poured another. Bear was staring at him, his eyes full of feeling – he could sense what Reese was feeling, even if Reese couldn't put it into words himself. Reese tossed his duffle bag onto the floor, and swung himself onto the couch, stretching out. Bear stood up and waited until he was settled again, and then he fit himself into the space Reese had left for him at the back of the couch. Bear jostled himself until he was comfortable, and then laid his head across Reese's chest, exhaling in a long, slow sigh. Humans were simple. They just needed unconditional love.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Gelila**

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 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

What was that sound? Someone was throwing up. Where am I?

Reese popped up, right out of the best sleep he had had in a month. It took a minute to get his eyes working and then he remembered where he was. The library office. But he was alone. Who was up-chucking like that? He looked around the room, and then he saw Bear. It was Bear. Reese hopped up and crossed over to him. He could see the look in Bear's face. He was retching, trying to clear something that was not moving, and he looked like he was not going to be able to do it by himself. There was a half-eaten book, one of Harold's precious books with the leather cover and the fancy writing on the binding, on the floor over by Bear's bed. He must have gotten into it during the night while Reese was asleep on the couch.

What time was it? Doesn't matter. Bear needs to go right now. The Vet they used Downtown was manned twenty-four hours a day. Reese went back to the couch and grabbed his blanket. He wrapped Bear with it, and Bear whimpered when he compressed his belly trying to lift him up off the floor. He walked as fast as he could without jostling Bear too much, and got him down the stairs and into Harold's car. Lucky he still had the keys for this one. Hailing a cab at this time of night would be a problem with an armful of dog.

Reese swung around and headed for the vet's office. He called ahead, and a sleepy voice answered after three rings. He netted out the situation as fast as he could, almost breathless, and there was a long silence on the other end. They must think there was a drunk on the line – they'd probably hang up on him.

"Yes, Mr. Reese. Bring him in as soon as you get here. Just push the doorbell and we'll buzz you right in."

When he got there, he parked right in front, and ran around to the passenger seat. Bear was still retching, whimpering a little, with a look in his eyes. Help me, it was saying to Reese. Something about dogs and children – it made Reese feel helpless when things went wrong with either one. His palms were sweating, and his stomach had dropped out of his body for the moment. He felt like he was going to throw up, too. The doorbell was lit, and he pressed it – for way too long, and they buzzed him back to come in. He carried Bear inside and the tech came around the counter toward him.

"Just bring him right back to the exam room with me, Mr. Reese." This vet tech here tonight, Colin, was really good, Reese recalled. He could run the whole show, if need be. Lots of experience and he was smart. He liked to assist with surgery and he liked all the procedures the vets got to do. Great. Reese followed him back to the exam room and he laid Bear down on the table, gently. He whimpered a little with the pressure of the table on his belly. Colin petted his head and spoke to him, while he was gently unwrapping the blanket. Reese was backing away to give him room to work, but he needed to pace a little. The adrenaline was making him shaky inside and his heart was beating out of his chest.

Colin was checking Bear over, listening to his heart, his belly, and then taking his temperature, doing some other things, but Reese was only half-paying-attention.

Then he told Reese he was going to take Bear back for an x-ray and then the Vet on duty would see Bear in the back and come out to tell him what she found. He nodded and watched Colin pick up Bear, who was retching again. It was hard to watch.

"Why don't you wait out in the lobby, Mr. Reese. It won't be long," Colin said, seeing the look in Reese's face. People and their pets – he saw that look all the time. Misery, when their pets were in trouble. Pets were family. He got it.

Reese went back out to the lobby, empty at this time of night. He couldn't sit. He just paced around the large room that smelled of that fresh spray they used to clean the place. It smelled good. Not like wet dog or cat pee. The place was spotless.

There was a huge fish tank along one wall, and he stopped to look at it. All kinds of colorful fish were swimming around in there, weaving in and out of the rocks and greenery. He was starting to calm down a bit. The fish tank was helping. It was almost like watching a fire in a fireplace. It was mesmerizing. He went over to one of the chairs opposite the fish tank and sat down. Okay. What was going to happen to Bear? It looked like he was in enough trouble that he might need an operation. This was an excellent Vet Hospital. All the vets he had met here were top-notch. And his ace-in-the-hole vet tech was here tonight, too. So, he was feeling better about the worst-case scenario, if Bear needed surgery. Bear was young, healthy, in his prime. He would bounce back fine, Reese was thinking. The dope – what was it that made him go after Harold's books like that, anyway? Bear's first week with Harold he had destroyed one of those priceless books Harold owned. Harold had laughed out loud when Reese had offered to pay him back for the book. Reese had had no idea that there was such a thing as a priceless book.

Reese was leaning forward, with his fingers interlaced, staring at the floor when the Vet came out from the back. At first he didn't pay any attention, but then he looked up and saw her coming toward him. He stood up right away, and he was a little taken aback. She was nearly his height, with skin the color of warm brown toast, and the bluest blue eyes he had ever seen. He was speechless for a moment and then he realized he was staring at her eyes. He had never seen eyes that color before. She smiled.

"The word you're looking for is cerulean," she said, smiling, with a British accent. Reese shook himself.

"What?"

"The eyes – cerulean blue. It's rare, but it catches people's attention, wouldn't you say?" She was smiling at him again, and he had to agree.

"Yes, I would."

"Shall we discuss Bear?" Reese nodded and sat down. She sat down a little distance from him on the next chair, swinging it around to face his.

"So, Bear is retching because he has eaten a good portion of a book. I see it in his stomach on the x-ray. He is not going to be able to pass that through his system, and so, I want to take him right in to surgery. Do you follow me? He is going to require an operation."

The two talked for another ten minutes, with the Vet giving him a few of the details, but telling him there really was no other option, and she didn't want to wait until he obstructed. Right now, she could get in, get the pieces out, and get out with very little extra trauma to Bear. The longer they waited, the more he was hurting himself. Reese told her of course, to go ahead right away. She nodded, and the look in her eyes was solid, serious, professional, Reese thought. Bear would be in good hands.

Reese watched her go to the back, and then it got very quiet again in the lobby. Okay. Nothing to do right now except wait.

Colin popped his head out and asked Reese if he wanted some coffee – he had just made a fresh pot in the back, and Reese smiled and got up to walk back there. Colin waved him in, and showed him the cups and said there was milk in the refrigerator. Reese waved him off. No milk. He would take it black.

"Thanks, Colin. You're a life-saver." Reese raised the cup and took a long drink. It was good. Hit the spot.

"Hey, by the way, I've never seen this Vet in the office before. Is she new?"

"Doc? Yeah, she's pretty new. She came over from England to do some work with the docs here. Kind of an exchange of techniques. I guess they all met at some conference last year and set this thing up. She's really good."

"I didn't get her name."

"Yeah, that happens a lot." He smiled a knowing smile at Reese. "Those eyes. You can't take your eyes off them, and you miss everything she just said to you. Used to happen to me all the time, but now, I'm over it. I can talk with her and not gape at her." Colin looked up at Reese, who was nodding.

"Her name?"

"Oh, right, it's Gelila. She's Ethiopian, and they go by their first names. But for the record, her last name is Mekonnen. That's her father's first name. They take their father's first name as their last names over there." Reese nodded again, and then he poured a little more coffee into his cup, raised it up in the air in a salute to Colin, and then went back out to the lobby to watch the fish until Bear was out of surgery.

It was morning when Colin came back out to tell Reese everything had gone great. Bear was back in one of the cages getting fluids through his IV, and he had one of those plastic cones around his head so he wouldn't try to pull out his stitches. He would have to stay there for a couple of days to make sure he was eating and pooping normally. Then he could go home and recover the rest of the way there. Colin told him Dr. Gelila would be right out to tell him everything again, if he wanted to wait.

She appeared from around the counter just then, and Reese looked over at her. Nice that she was nearly at eye-level with him. She smiled, and told him that Bear had behaved like a gentleman, and that Colin and she had been able to take out the pieces of book that were lodged in his stomach. She handed him a glass bottle with chunks of book and leather cover in it. He held it up to the light and shook his head. Harold was not going to be happy.

"Well, Mr. Reese, you can come back in tomorrow. I believe Bear will be ready to go back home with you and your family by then. Your kids must be frantic. Bear is a great dog." Reese smiled a small smile and looked at the floor. Family. Kids.

There was a long silence, and then he looked up. She was watching his face, and she had seen how he looked away like that. She changed the subject.

"Okay, then, I'm off. Starving. I need some breakfast, so I'll be going. Very lovely to meet you, Mr. Reese. Take care, and maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

A little distance away, at the side of the huge fish tank, a woman was standing there, watching the two of them talking. She stared at Reese. Gelila had given him the perfect opening. She was done with her shift. Ready to leave. Starving.

"Come on, John," Carter said...


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15:Beautiful work  
**

* * *

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

"Since Bear was such a gentleman, it's only right for me, too, Doc. There's a really good all-night diner not far from here. How about breakfast?" Reese was watching her face for her reaction, and she seemed genuinely pleased. A little warm wave, a glow, happened right in the center of his chest at that.

Reese and Gelila walked together to the door, and then they both looked back to Colin at the front desk.

"Nice job in there, Col-" she called to him, and he gave her the thumbs-up.

"I'll be by tomorrow evening. Thanks again for helping Bear," Reese said, with a tip of the head to Colin. Colin smiled back, and then started writing the information on Bear's chart for the day shift people coming in soon.

Reese offered to drive the two of them over to the diner, but Gelila suggested they walk, instead. It was only a few blocks and it was a beautiful morning.

"I've been inside the whole shift. It would be great to stretch my legs a bit," she said to Reese.

"The fresh air will do me good, too. I was asleep when Bear started having trouble last night."

"It was a good catch on your part that you realized he was in trouble. Many people would have waited, and that could have made things trickier for Bear."

Reese was smiling a little with her British accent. There was something soothing and friendly about it; so different than the fast-paced, harsher New York metro accents he had learned to decipher. Brooklyn, Queens, Jersey, Upstate New York, and Long Island – all of them were distinct, and some of them were downright comical to listen to.

"What's making you smile like that?" she asked him.

"Oh, I was just thinking about New York accents – it must be funny to listen to them. When I first moved here, I couldn't understand anyone. They all talk so fast, and the accents are heavy." She smiled and nodded her head.

"Where do you hail from, Mr. Reese?"

"Oh, a little bit of everywhere, I guess. Moved around a lot. Army brat – " Gelila nodded.

"Ah, me too. Mum and Dad were born in Ethiopia, but moved to England when they got married. Dad is a jazz musician, and he plays all over Europe and Africa, even here in the States a few times. Mum is an artist, not paintings, though. Textiles. She makes huge pieces of all kinds of fibers and materials," she said, as her arms swung out wide to emphasize the size of the pieces.

"They keep a flat outside of London, now, but we were nomads when I was young." He could see the far-off look in her eyes for a moment as she said it.

"You liked it? The travel." She turned to him with those eyes.

"I miss it – on the road, seeing the sights everywhere. It was such a gift," she said, and her eyes crinkled with her smile.

They chatted on about Gelila's move back to England, going to University there, and then choosing to become a vet. It was a lot of hard work, long hours, shoulder-deep down inside a birthing cow sometimes, she said, and then looked up, quickly.

"Oh, sorry, maybe a little too graphic just before breakfast," and they both laughed.

When they got to the diner, Reese held the door for her, and they went in. They picked a booth near a window where the sun was just rising high enough to peep in. Their waiter came by and flipped out his pad to write their order, and then Reese watched him get lost in her eyes. He kept starting to write on the pad, but then didn't, and started again when he realized. When it had gone on long enough, Reese interrupted and the waiter swung his eyes away just long enough to break the spell. Reese repeated the order and added his own, and then the waiter looked back to her eyes for a moment, with wonder.

She took it in stride, Reese saw. She must be used to it by now – people mesmerized by her eyes, so beautiful against the creamy brown of her skin. She had a long slender neck, too. Reese could see an intricately-woven colorful necklace made of some kind of fiber, dyed and woven together, with some glints of metal in it, as she slid her coat from her shoulders. She felt his eyes on the necklace.

"From my Mum. She made it for my birthday. Isn't it lovely?" She pulled it forward toward Reese so he could see it more closely, and he reached to feel the fibers with his fingertips. Lovely, yes.

"Beautiful work," he said, looking up into her eyes. Be careful, now. Those eyes. He could get lost in them, too.

At another table out of view, a woman sat alone. Waiters rushed by, hustling, unaware that she was there. She didn't want Reese to catch sight of her, to break the spell. She was pleased with what she saw. Carter...


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: No footprint; whipped cream on top; Nerd Convention**

* * *

 **Outside of Chicago, November, 2014**

For days he had been rolling across the American countryside, hiding inside one of the cars of a freight train. He had moved among cars several times, at nighttime, when the train had come to a halt to make space on the track for another train passing through. Sometimes it would be a passenger train, and as it passed the trainmen signaled to each other with a whistle blow, and he could see the passengers behind the windows. Some were sleeping, some watching the scenery, or looking at his train as it sat waiting for them to pass. And there were cars with windows that stretched up and over the edge, onto the roof, so the passengers could have a wider view on their trip East. He watched them pass by him in the darkness.

The trip had shown him the sights of this big country. Lots of big cities, with the walls covered in dark, harsh graffiti down near the train stations, and the tracks full of debris. These were the less welcoming views of America. And then far from the dirty cities, there were rolling hills, mountains, streams, fields full of old, brown stalks, tractors out grinding them down to send back to the soil. He had rolled through small sleepy towns that had seen better days; and now, up ahead, Chicago – one day's ride from his final destination.

Ping had taken a long trip from his home on the steppes of China, west of Beijing. The benefactors had made this plan for him – using no path that would come to the Machine's attention. He had left no footprint, no cellphone calls, no credit card transactions, no records of his travel. He had crossed thousands of miles, undetected.

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

At first, there was nothing. No emotion. She just walked away, descending from the roof where she had caught sight of Shaw in the building across the street, with Someone. But then it began to get to her, stick in her craw like a fish bone stuck partway down. It was in deep, unreachable, and it was starting to fester. She could feel something indescribable rising up from inside her – yes, this was a feeling she had had before, and it was always the start of some streak of violence, thoughts of senseless brutality that she had to control. It was in her, that blackness, that violence. She was afraid sometimes that she would act out those thoughts and not be able to stop it – afraid _for_ herself, and even a little afraid _of_ herself. There was no telling how far things could go if she didn't keep a tight rein on herself.

So, she had driven her car away from the apartment where she had seen Shaw and Someone. She drove and drove, without any particular destination in mind, until she found herself on a street in the suburbs. There were lovely old trees, stately old homes, the kind of place you would see in commercials on TV, where families would gather. Everyone was smiling, passing the plates of food, piled high, down the long table, enjoying family time together. Family time – the thought made her gag. Furious! Murderous!

She stopped in the middle of the tree-lined street and got out. In the back seat, she grabbed the long, black, heavy flashlight she carried for emergencies. She walked up to the first car she came to and swung her flashlight into the headlights, glass flying everywhere, then on to the back lights, smashing them, glass and plastic skittering across the street. Then, the next one on the street, and the next.

In a matter of minutes, she had left a swath of destruction behind, and her flashlight looked like it had been to battle. The glass lens was shattered, and the knurled black body was scratched down into the gleaming aluminum below.

She walked back to her car and threw the flashlight inside on the seat. Off in the distance, she could hear sirens approaching. Maybe for her, she thought. She got in, and stomped on the accelerator. Her car fishtailed and she was off, heading to the next locale to vent her rage, or maybe, just to a diner for some tea and a piece of pie. With ice cream. And whipped cream on top...

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

In another warehouse, far from the library office, there was all manner of activity going on inside. In front of a glass wall that rose from floor to ceiling, a group of young people were gathered together. Nerds. Every one of them. It looked like a Nerd Convention was just starting, and the first few had wandered in looking for free food. There were men and women, and a few who could have been either. They were East Asian, and South Asian, Nigerian, Eastern European, with a gaggle of Americans thrown in for good measure. They were here for a unique opportunity. It was a game. They were going to be competing in a game that had been designed just for them.

Today, they would be meeting with the team that had created it, to learn the way it would work. There were steps to it, and it would take days to get it right, to test-drive the thing and see how it handled, what was allowed, and what was out of bounds. It was okay to work by yourself if you liked, or you could set up a team. The strategy was all yours to decide. It was only important to get to the goal, however you did it.

There were rules of course, guidelines really, and the main design team, named Primary, would oversee who was doing what to whom. They would make the calls. Their decisions were final. The winner or the winning team would win $100,000 for starters. And there was more. There were prizes for certain categories as the players vied with each other during the competition.

The warehouse was filling up, and there were lines of players standing around with plates of food and cold drinks. Some of them were talking with one another, but most were standing around, doing what Nerds do when they are present together in large numbers.

A ripple went through the crowd. People were craning their necks to see if they could catch a glimpse of Primary. Word was that they were on-site and making their way to the Glass Room. Once Primary was there, things would get more serious. No badge, no entry into the Glass Room. Each player was here by invitation. They could bring their entourage to cheer them on, but those people would remain outside the Glass Room, relegated to watching the play from seats outside.

Harold Finch and Logan Pierce entered down a walkway leading to the Glass Room. They carried copies of the Rule Book and put them down at the three spaces for themselves. A waiter had taken their food orders and was just bringing their meals out to them from the kitchen. There was a little delay because one of them was missing. Root. They had been calling her on her cell, but no answer yet, and they had a warehouse full of people here already. They would have to start without her. Just the fact that they were present would quell the crowd, and if they had to, they could start to go through the rules to eat up more time. Maybe Root would get there, maybe not. Harold himself had only just arrived from his appointment with Jules in Manhattan. He hadn't even had time to go to the library office yet. Straight here this morning. And Logan was up from Washington. He had left Joey and Harper behind to handle the numbers coming into the Washington Team. The Machine kept them busy down there, too.

A little cheer went up in the back, and the two men looked over in that direction. In black leather, fit closely to the body, Root strode down the walkway toward them, attracting stares from all sides. She could feel their eyes on her. She was jubilant. She still had it.

Once she entered the Glass Room, she joined Logan and Harold, and the three turned to the crowd, which had begun to clap and cheer the three – Primary was in the house. Let the games begin!


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Opening salvo; worth the wait**

* * *

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

"May we have your attention please, ladies and gentlemen." Logan Pierce, the tallest of the three of them, and perhaps the most natural showman, had jumped up on a chair to address the large group gathered in the warehouse. The chatter gradually diminished until it was quiet in the space. He had clipped on a microphone to his shirt placket, and Harold and Root were doing the same. It was time for Primary to address the assembled crowd and declare a start to the kickoff. Stretching a little taller, and with his smoothest, most resonant voice, he began.

"Good morning. We are Primary," stretching his arms to both sides where Harold and Root stood. The crowd erupted in clapping, whistles and hoots as though they were cheering rock stars on stage right in front of them.

"Over the next hours we will be introducing you to a new concept in interactive gaming. We will give you the basics to get you started, and then let you take a slimmed-down version of the system for a little test-drive. We expect you to need about three days and nights to be ready for First Launch, when the system will go live, and you will begin to accrue points toward that very large reward at the end of Phase 1." Without a pause, Harold took up the next part.

"Good morning, Players and Supporters. For the next three days we will be working closely together to teach you the syntax and the tools you will have available to you. We will allow you opportunities to meet all of the other Players, as well," Harold said in his teacher-voice. He looked like a teacher – but with that little edge that came from supreme confidence in his own history and abilities. It gave the Players a little taste of what could be their own futures, with this project perhaps launching them into the rarefied air of gaming fame. And then it was Root's turn.

"As you know," she said in a strong voice, "it will be your choice whether you work alone, or join a team. So, one of the key challenges of the next three days will be to meet all of the other Players during meal times, and down-times. It's your responsibility to mingle with the others and design your own winning strategy. The grand-prize winner or team will take home 100,000 dollars – " and at that, the crowd began to cheer and hoot again.

Logan took over from Root. "And that is just the beginning. There are prizes all along the way to compete for. The better you get, the faster you compete, not to mention the fact that your name may become legendary."

"So, shall we get started?" Root shouted. The crowd roared back "YES," arms overhead, cheering.

Harold, Root and Logan gazed out at the crowd cheering and clapping, then looked at each other with smiles. It was a great start. Enthusiasm was high. And soon, this group of gamers would launch the opening salvo for their plan to take down Samaritan...

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

The sun was well up in the sky now, and Reese was walking Gelila back to her office. His car was still parked there, in front, likely ticketed by now. Alternate side of the street parking was in force, and he should have moved his car to the other side of the street before he left for breakfast with Gelila. Something had distracted him. He smiled to himself. Yes, she could become that, distracting, very easily. She was easy to be with. Relaxed, self-confident, comfortable with people. She smiled often, a genuine smile, infectious even to strangers around her. And the British accent just made it better.

When they reached the office, Reese leaned over and pulled the white paper, the ticket, from under his wiper blade and held it up to Gelila.

"Worth every penny," he said, and she laughed.

"Sorry, I should have insisted that you move your car when we were leaving this morning, but I seem to have been distracted." In her eyes, a little challenge. What would he do now?

Here it was. That first line. To cross it right now would make this seem like it was hurtling forward, and that didn't feel right to him. There was a tightness inside him, a sense of resistance. He wasn't ready for this.

The moment was passing. He knew she could see it in his face – that momentary hesitation. What would she take away from that?

She let him struggle with it. It would have been fine if he had jumped in, committed right away, and they made plans to meet up again, right away. But, there was something a little delicious about this way, too. She wasn't worried. Things had a way of working out the right way in her life. She trusted that what was supposed to happen would happen. Mum had always told her that the road traveled was more important than the destination. The destination always seemed to take care of itself.

She reached out for his hand and held it in her two. In her eyes, confidence, understanding, wisdom.

"I'll make it a point of being here when you come back for Bear," she said. And then, she turned back to the office, and closed the door behind her.

She didn't need an explanation for his hesitation. Again, when it was the right time, it would become clear. He was a little mysterious, and he had held back during breakfast, preferring to hear her story, without divulging much of his. Time, she thought. The cure to this was Time. And she had the sense that this man would be well worth the wait.

Reese watched her walk away, and he breathed a little sigh of relief. Now that she was gone, he could let himself rewind things a little bit, and replay what had happened this morning. Bear was in trouble and he brought him to the best place he could think of for help. It was coincidence that Gelila was there last night. She had put him at ease that Bear would come through just fine, and, so far, he had. She was professional, and talented, and caring. He could see that in her eyes, those intense blue eyes that could melt you into submission if she aimed them your way. So, what was his problem? Why the hesitation? He had a sense he knew where this was going. The hurt.

He climbed into his car and drove back to the library office. Harold wasn't there yet. Oh, right, he had that Geek thing today, with Logan and Root. Best for people like him to steer clear of that. There was only so much geek-per-square-inch that he could take before his head exploded.

He showered and dressed with the clothes from his duffle bag, and the suit he had brought from home. He policed his whiskey glass from last night, and put things back the way they were supposed to be. Then he jotted a quick note to Harold about Bear, and weighted the note down with the glass jar Gelila had given him, with the chunks of book inside it that she had taken out of Bear's stomach. Harold was going to have to work on a way to keep Bear and books apart.

Today, Reese would meet up with Fusco downtown, and they would try to unwind the mystery of the two women on the glass wall in the library, next to the picture of Shaw's POI, Marco. One name, two different women. What did that mean? Who was sending them after Marco?

He thought about Shaw. It made him smile inside. Maybe there was a soft side to her after all. Guns and roses...


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: Wouldn't see them coming; Genes work**

* * *

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

The squad room was busy when Reese got there. Fusco had just returned from the Medical Examiner's office and had some news to share with Reese. They walked up to the coffee pot in the back and Reese poured two cups for them, and lifted his up to smell it first. Nope. Deadly. He dumped his into the small sink next to the coffee pot, and poured the rest of the pot after it. In just two minutes, there was the smell of a fresh pot of coffee brewing. Fusco wasn't so fussy, sipping away at the old stuff in his cup.

"Are you done there, Betty Crocker?" he chided. Reese ignored him, and asked him about the Coroner's report.

"Cause of death was pretty obvious – bullet through the chest. But the interesting thing was that she had a lot of surgery on her face, just recently, according to the Coroner. Her fingerprints match the name of the woman Glasses said was involved with this guy, Marco. But the picture of that woman doesn't look anything like the dead woman. I'm thinking they may be the same person, but we can't prove it unless we get something to check for a DNA match."

"People get plastic surgery all the time, for all kinds of reasons, Lionel. Homicide is just thinking that this is a dead woman in a park."

"Yeah, a dead woman with a gun, though."

"So, if she is the same one Finch told us about, then we need to find out who sent her after Marco and why she changed the way she looks. Marco's an engineer working on some project about a new way of producing energy. It would put a lot of people out of business, and that is motive enough to go after him. See what you can find out about the woman's background," Reese said to Fusco.

"That sounds like a job for Glasses."

"He's tied up with some geek convention for the next few days, and we need to get answers. I'll be in touch, Lionel. Coffee?" Reese raised the pot of fresh coffee as he was pouring one for himself, and Fusco finally dumped his out in the sink, too, and held his cup out for Reese. After a sip, Fusco smiled up at him.

"You're going to make someone very happy one of these days, Betty," he said as Reese was walking away with his cup.

Later in the evening, Reese was returning to the library office. Harold was there, alone, on his computer. Behind him was a white board filled with Harold's handwriting, as though he had been teaching a class. Reese looked at the board:

5-layer strategy:

\- Distributed denial of service – advanced, persistent

\- Internet of things attack

\- Bogon/Martian packets/Ingress filtering/Man in the Middle Attack

\- Application layer Attack/Zombies/Echo/Phlashing

\- Close encounters

"Looks like you started without me, Finch. A little strategy meeting? Where is everyone?"

"Mr. Pierce and Miss Groves returned to the Warehouse after the dinner break to keep an eye on the Players. They are having a "Meet and Greet" session tonight. Safe to say I don't think you'd be interested," Finch said, looking up at Reese reading his white board, clueless.

"You're right, Finch. Breaks my geeks-per-sqare-inch rule. Can't go." Reese sat down nearby and watched Finch. He was different today. More focused and comfortable than he had seen him in weeks. Maybe this nerd convention thing was just the ticket to get him out of his funk. He seemed energized again, more like himself.

"And, Bear?"

"Ate another one of your books, Finch. Gave him indigestion. Needed surgery, but he's going to be okay. I can pick him up tomorrow evening at the Vet. You really need to keep him out of your books."

"Perhaps there is a Dutch command to guard them, instead of eat them?" Reese smiled and shook his head, no, to Finch.

"I met with Fusco today and he says the woman in the Park may be that same woman," Reese said, pointing up to the photograph on the glass wall, next to Marco's picture. He continued.

"The M.E. said she's had recent surgery to her face. Maybe she was trying to keep Marco from recognizing her."

"Or, perhaps she was hiding from us and the Machine," Harold said. "A small army of people who have been physically altered like that could do a lot of damage. We literally wouldn't see them coming until it was too late. Anyone could be anyone on the street, and we just wouldn't know. We have to alert the others to consider this kind of attack. It may be nothing, or it may be something very ominous for us. Be careful out there, John."

 **Glen Cove, Long Island, New York, November, 2014**

The air was cool on her legs, as they swung through tree-lined streets on Marco's motorcycle. She had her arms wrapped around his waist, and he watched her face for a moment in his rear-view mirror on the handlebar of the bike as he took the curve with more power and a lean to the left. Exhilarating. She liked it, too, he saw. She had this wild side, and it made him smile even more.

They were on the way to his father's home in Glen Cove, on Long Island. He was anxious to have him meet her. Too bad that Mama was away right now, in Italy, visiting with family in Pescara. She would adore Shaw, Marco thought.

New Woods Road had homes on one side, and then a large Preserve across the street. They swung down the roads with the pockets of cool air in the dips hitting their legs. She held Marco a little closer and he didn't seem to mind at all.

Then they began to slow, and Marco turned left onto a side street off New Woods, and a few houses in from the corner he pulled into a wide driveway in front of a large house. It was neat, clear of any leaves or hint of wind-blown debris. Everything that was not grass or plantings was paved with tan blocks, and it looked manicured like someone's pride and joy.

"Wow. Someone loves to garden," Shaw said, as they dismounted and took off their helmets.

"My father loves this," Marco said, with his arms outstretched to the property. "He's in heaven when he can be outdoors. It always looks like this," he said, smiling broadly. He waited for Shaw, and put his arm around her waist as they walked up the driveway to the door.

Inside, Shaw could see the same attention to detail, the welcoming feeling. She could see the European influences throughout the house, which was spacious but cozy. She could imagine a large family living here. It seemed too large for just Marco's parents.

"Is all of this just for your parents?" she asked him.

"Oh, no. We have a big family. Four sisters and a younger brother, and all of their families, too. When we get together – well, you'll see," he said with that look of pleasure in his eyes. And then, he smiled even more, as his father walked into the kitchen to greet them.

He was a carbon copy of Marco. Shaw was impressed. Handsome just like his son, with salt and pepper dark hair and dark eyes, and that same fringe of dark eyelashes like Marco. The easy smile, trim body; he was Marco in another thirty-five years.

Marco went forward and the two embraced, and kissed both cheeks. "Papa," Marco called him. And then they turned around to Shaw, Marco's arm around his father's shoulders.

"Papa, I would like you to meet a very special woman. This is Sameen Shaw." The elder Marco stepped forward and embraced her, kissing her on both cheeks, and then holding her shoulders in his hands. He smiled at her, softly, but there was strength in his grip.

"Wow, genes work," she said, looking at the two of them side-by-side.

"I'm sorry, my English is not so good. Excuse me," he said with his eyes crinkling in a smile, in perfect English.

"Ah, yes, just like your French, Spanish, Portuguese, and German. You hardly speak a word," Marco said, hugging him closer.

"Come, my dear, may I offer you something to drink?"

"Papa, how about if I make us some espresso. I brought a cake that I made to go with it." The two spoke in Italian briefly, then stopped and looked at Shaw.

"Do you speak Italian, Miss Shaw?" the elder asked, his eyes soft and smiling.

"A few words," she confessed.

"Ah, I travel all over Europe, even more in my younger days, and my ear loves the sounds of the languages, one more beautiful than the next. That is why I have learned so many. So beautiful," he said with his fingers together, hands gesturing to her. She recognized the same gestures as Marco.

The elder Marco waved her over to join him at the table while Marco made the espresso and cut some slices of his cake.

"So, tell me, my dear. Where are you from?" This was always the conversation-killer for her. There was just no nice way to say it so that she didn't get those looks from people – sad, uneasy, questioning sometimes. This was not where she wanted this to go right now.

Just then, there was a loud banging on the front door, and someone was ringing the doorbell over and over, then it stopped abruptly. The Marcos looked up and then there was the sound of people entering the house. The men smiled and the elder Marco rose up from his seat, patting Shaw on the hand as he did so, and they walked to the kitchen opening to meet the rest of the family. What had Marco said before – four sisters and one younger brother? And their families? My God, no, Shaw said to herself. I have to get out of here...


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Rattled; Big Family; Why?(rated T for violence)  
**

* * *

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

"Reese," he said into his phone.

"It's me, Shaw. You have to get me out of here, Reese." He was confused for a second. It was Shaw's voice, but she sounded scared, or upset, about something. Shaw? Not like her at all. Nothing scared that woman.

"Where are you, Shaw?"

"Marco brought me to his father's house on Long Island."  
"Okay." He was trying to imagine how that could have made her this upset.

"The whole family showed up. All of them." He was starting to see the problem. Shaw. In the middle of – all that – and he started to smile to himself.

"It's not _funny_!" she said, shouting at him in his ear.

"No," he said, doubling over, holding back a laugh out loud. He was just picturing her with Marco's huge Italian family surrounding her, everyone talking at her at once, asking her a million questions, and trying to hug and kiss her the way Italians do. Oh, God, she was armed. This could go really bad, now that he thought about it.

"Don't do anything – serious – I'll be right there – give me the address," he said, and wrote the address on his palm with a pen. He told her he'd be there in a half-hour, and to make up some story that she needed to leave for work.

This was a first, he thought, as he clicked his map app on his phone and checked out the route to the house in Glen Cove. He had never seen Shaw like that, so rattled. She wouldn't have let herself walk into something like that. It must have been a surprise. Oh, right, and she was stuck there. Marco drove a motorcycle, so she didn't have a way of getting back to Manhattan without creating a scene. She was smart, calling _him_ to come and get her, official police business and all. She could make it work and no one would have to know.

 **Glen Cove, Long Island, New York, November, 2014**

Shaw clicked her phone off and then looked up at herself in the bathroom mirror. She couldn't stay in here for the next half-hour until Reese got here. She had to show her face out there, pull Marco aside and tell him she had been called in for work. Sorry. These things happened. Part of the job. Ree-Riley was coming to pick her up, and she would meet him later, when he got back to the City after the party with his family. He would understand. Settled. Now to deal with all of those people out there.

When Reese got there, he pulled in front across the end of the driveway, blocking all the cars that were parked there. Seeing all the cars, he almost felt sorry for Shaw. Big family. Every one of them with his or her eyes on Shaw. He hoped he had gotten there in time.

He walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. He pulled his badge out of his pocket, to make it look more official. A young man, late-twenties, with dark hair and dark eyes that reminded him of Marco opened the door.

"Detective Riley. I'm looking for my partner, Shaw."

"Hello, Detective. We're expecting you. Come right in." Reese stepped inside the house and heard the sound of a lot of people talking and dishes clinking in the next room. It sounded friendly enough. He had made it in time. The young man turned to him and held out his hand.

"I'm Antonio Bruzzese, Marco's brother." Reese shook his hand and the two went into the large kitchen, where everyone was seated around a huge table. He was looking around the room for Shaw.

Everyone stood when he entered, and they all walked over, introducing themselves one by one, shaking his hand, kissing him on both cheeks, telling him their names, which he promptly forgot. He had to meet all the children, too. And at the end, Marco, Shaw and Marco's father stood in front of him.

"I am Marco's father, Marco Bruzzese, Detective Riley. We were just sitting down to dinner. May I offer you something to drink, or to eat?"

Reese shook hands with the elder Marco, and then with the younger one, saying "no, thanks, we have to get back. Sorry for the interruption." Reese turned around as Shaw headed past him toward the door, with Marco following. He waved at all the people, who were in the midst of sending food around the table for the children gathered there for dinner, and they called goodbye after him. He turned around to follow Shaw and Marco. Whew. Escape.

They were at the front door, and Marco was opening it to walk her out. Reese followed, then went past the two, around to the front of the car, and got in. He could see the two of them embracing in the driveway, and then Shaw was talking with him. He was nodding, and then he pulled her back to him and kissed her again. She definitely wasn't fighting him. It was one of those lingering kisses. Hmm. Where was she going with this, he thought. It was getting complicated.

Marco opened the door for her, and she hopped up onto the seat. Before he closed the door, he looked over to Reese and nodded his head toward him, with a certain look in his eyes.

"Take good care of her, Detective Riley," and then he looked to Shaw and said "be safe. See you later."

Reese pulled out and turned around in the street heading back to New Woods Road, then right, with the Preserve on his left side. They didn't speak for a long time. He waited to see if she would say something, but she didn't. So many questions came to mind.

"Big family," he said, finally.

"You have no idea," she said, staring straight ahead, a little quiver in her voice. She was shaking a little, and he could see from the corner of his eye that she was pale, too.

" – pinned down – no way out," she said, with a sound in her voice he knew very well. He remembered hearing that sound, those words, when he was back there, in Afghanistan with his men, and they were taking fire from all sides.

They were on a night mission in the foothills outside of Herat, moving up into the mountains and then they had come upon another group of Rangers chasing after Taliban. He and his men were taking fire down from the mountain and they couldn't get up there to help. They could hear them on the radio, pinned down, too, up in the mountains. They had called for air support, but it was too late getting there – for the men up on the mountain. The radio went silent. Bodies were everywhere up there, when they got to them. Rangers and Taliban. Everyone was gone up there.

He blinked in the on-coming headlights. That was a bad day. Reese shook himself out of it. He could hear Shaw muttering something to herself, sitting with her body leaning forward, tight as a drum, hands clenched together. Probably best not to try to talk sense into her right now. No way to win an argument with yourself, and any outside advice would only make it worse. He leaned back and drove on. He'd go back to the library office and they could sit down with a little drink, and get some food. Maybe then he could talk with her.

Then he heard the sound. The front tires rolling over something in the street that he hadn't seen. And a blur from the left, crossing the road, crashing, glass breaking, his SUV lurching, tipping, turning over and over, rolling down the hill, his head smacking the airbag on the driver's side window, then something hard in the middle of the car, then back to the left, then the middle again. The rolling stopped for a moment. The engine was still running. He could see Shaw with her head bloodied, trying to get her seat belt off. Footsteps were coming toward them.

He could hear glass breaking and people talking, no yelling, in another language. Then the door was open, and they were grabbing him, pulling him out of the seat. He was fighting them. And an arm with a rod held in its hand, flipping up over his head, then down hard. Darkness.

 **Flushing, Queens, New York, November, 2014 ** \- **rated T for violence and assault**

He could hear before anything else. And then he could taste blood in his mouth, and the smell of it in his nose. He was hanging from his wrists overhead, the rope cutting into his skin. The light was very dim where he was. He just listened for a bit before he moved and gave away that he was awake. He could hear someone breathing, moaning maybe. Shaw? He opened one eye a tiny crack and saw her pulled across a table, face-down, hands and feet stretched and tied underneath it. Her hair was matted with blood, and he could see the glint of glass from the car windows in her hair. She was breathing. He could see her back rising and falling in the dim light. He couldn't tell if she was awake.

He heard men talking behind him in another language. Mandarin, maybe. And then he could hear them coming. Shaw hadn't moved, but her breathing was faster. He thought she might have heard them, too, but wasn't giving away anything yet.

Four men came into the room and two walked to Shaw, while the other two stood on either side of him. Another voice from behind them, in the shadows, gave orders to the men. One from each pair reached down to the floor and picked up a bucket, then threw the contents on Reese and Shaw. It was cold and sudden on his skin, and he couldn't help startling. Shaw lifted her head, and he could see glass falling on the table as she turned her head to face his direction. She lifted her head a little more from the table, and seeing him hanging there, but alive, said "you always bring me to the best places." One of the men, the one without the bucket, said something like a warning, in Mandarin, and slapped across her legs with a flat stick. Shaw arched her back with the stinging slap. "Let the fun begin," she said, louder.

Reese was thinking to himself: _don't encourage them, Shaw. Just shut up._ But he heard the slap, even louder this time, and he could see the welts on the backs of her legs from the strikes. Bare legs. Her black slacks were gone, and there was nothing to protect her there from the strikes. He looked at her, but she was avoiding his eyes. He wanted to tell her to stop talking, but she didn't look at him. He could hear a woman's voice, but not Shaw this time, from behind them.

"We want to know the whereabouts of Harold Finch. You will tell us." Now, Shaw looked at him, and they silently shook their heads, just enough to see each other in the dim light. No. That wasn't happening tonight.

One of the men, pudgy and with lots of old acne scars on his face, and a pug nose, looked up into Reese's face and said something he didn't understand. Then he held a flat wooden stick out to show him he meant business. And he reached out to Reese's belt, opened it, then the zipper, sliding his suit pants, bloody now from his head wounds, down off him. Then he pulled off his shoes and socks on both sides, and stood up to face Reese, with his stick smacking into the palm of his other hand.

There were points on the body where certain nerves ran, and Reese was aware of them from his own martial arts training. They were strike points for hands or weapons, and he was hoping that this was news to this guy, Pudgy.

"Harold Finch. Tell us now." Her voice was flat, unemotional. He could hear no hint of a Chinese accent. When he didn't answer, Pudgy swung his flat stick out behind his back and forward over Reese's bare skin, at the in-step. The strike made his body shake on the ropes, and his wrists hurt almost as much as his foot, with the jerk. Shaw was looking at him, and he was breathing hard, and shaking his head, no. She understood and kept silent.

Then Pudgy aimed a little higher, on the inside of the ankle, hard, with the flat side of the stick. He jerked and cursed, his eyes closed until he could breathe slower, under control. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Shaw. Her face was placid. She had the same question in her eyes. He shook his head, no. He wasn't going to give up Harold. And neither would she.

And then, a little higher, just below the inside of his knee, and the sound was loud. A crack as the wood hit bone. He heard himself moaning. Breathing hard. Cursing Pudgy.

He was going to have to take a little detour in his head to deal with what was going to happen here tonight. He had gone there before, when things had gotten bad before, and it had kept him in a place where he could deal with the pain.

He heard a man's voice this time, in Mandarin, and then he was getting ready for the next strike. He heard it, loud and sharp, but didn't feel anything with it. He opened his eyes and saw Shaw's back arched and the skinny hunch-back with the stick in his hand was bouncing it on the bare sole of her foot, where another welt was rising. He lifted the stick and swung it down on the inside of her ankle bone, and that wood-on-bone crack sounded in the room. She was arching and a sound had come out of her, a groan, long and low. Her breathing was fast, and he could see her back rising and falling. She turned her head to him and shook it, no.

Skinny lifted his stick and ran it down Shaw's back, dragging it on her shirt. Then he raised it and came down on her low back, right across her spine. She jerked with the strike. He could see the look in her eyes. Blank. She could still feel the strike, but she had changed something and she wasn't there now. She was doing the same thing he was just thinking about for himself. Then he heard the female voice behind him again.

"Let's play a different game." She spoke Mandarin to the men, and the skinny one backed away from Shaw, looking at Reese with a smile. His partner, another moron with rolls of fat escaping out the bottom of his undershirt, went down to the end of the table, while Skinny loosened the rope under the table. Fat Roll leaned over and grabbed Shaw by the thighs and pulled her backwards down the table toward him. He kept pulling her, until her legs fell down off the end of the table. Skinny held onto the rope around Shaw's hands, and Fat Roll stopped to look at Reese, with a smile on his face.

Reese swung his full body weight backward, and then swung forward, with his bad leg arcing across toward Fat Roll.

The sound and feel of his kick hitting Fat Roll in the face was worth the pain of it. Fat Roll flew backwards, into the wall, and went down like a boxer with a glass jaw.

Pudgy went to town on him with his stick. His back, his legs, everywhere he could reach as Reese tried to swing back and go for him next. But something hit him in the head, from behind, and things went dark.

He didn't know how long they were there like that. On the floor, next to one another. He could hear her breathing next to him, and that was good. He tried to move, and everything lit up in pain. Where was everyone? He tried to sit up, and Shaw stirred next to him. He turned over to see her face. Her eyes were closed, and he could see her bare skin in the dim light of the room. He raised his head. No. Not that. He closed his eyes and a heat began to burn inside his chest.

He made himself sit up, and he started working on the ropes around his swollen hands. He kept his mind on the ropes, but he could see Shaw there next to him on the floor. When he got the ropes off him, he slipped off his suit jacket, and covered Shaw with it. She stirred a little, but her eyes were closed. Let her be, he said to himself. He had to get to Fusco. He pushed himself up off the floor, and started to go back into the other room behind him to look for a way to contact Fusco. There was his phone, right out in the open, on the table. They had left it there, just like they had left the two of them, alive. Why?


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: tapping was louder(rated T); 'til morning(rated T); his say-so; wrong man**

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 **Warning : The first two sections of this chapter are rated T for mild language, descriptions of violence, and adult themes. **

**Flushing, Queens, New York, November 2014**

There it was. A hair salon in Flushing, Queens. Reese's cellphone signal had brought Fusco here in the darkness. This was territory for one of New York City's violent Chinese gangs Fusco knew about. The Joint Asian Organized Crime Task Force, made up of NYPD, the FBI and IRS, was working the area to take the gang apart, arrest the leader and his key men. Another site, in Sunset Park, Brooklyn, was a part of the same gang; they were involved for years in illegal gambling, trafficking drugs like ketamine and MDMA, prostitution, extortion, and assault-for-hire.

Fusco didn't know any details about this location, but it looked deserted right now. No one was around on the street outside, either. Reese had made him promise not to call in anyone else to help, but he had said that the two of them were hurt, down in the basement of the building, and couldn't get themselves out. No police, Reese kept saying, just him.

Fusco got out of the car, flashlight in one hand, and his gun in the other. The front door was locked. He leaned on it, and it gave just enough under his weight so that he could tell it wasn't dead-bolted. He stood back away from the door and then kicked it open with one strike near the lock. It flew open and smacked the wall inside with the knob, bouncing back at him. He reached out to stop it before it slammed shut again, and then stepped forward, with his flashlight pointing inside, and gun just below the flashlight. No sounds yet. No alarm. No voices or footsteps.

He stepped forward, and could see the counters, mirrors, and hair salon swivel chairs ahead of him. He kept going, looking for a corridor or a doorway to lead him downstairs. He stopped to pull out his phone and texted Reese that he was inside the salon upstairs. A few moments later he heard a tapping sound coming from deeper in the building.

There was a door at the far end of the salon. Locked. Damn. No choice. He kicked it open, and swung his light and gun up in front of him. An empty corridor with doors on both sides; four, he counted, and another one at the far end wall. He stepped forward, trying each door, but each one was locked. He could hear the tapping getting louder. The door at the end was unlocked, and he pushed it open, aiming his light and gun to the far side. There was a small landing and then stairs going down into the darkness. The tapping was louder.

He moved forward, shining his light down the stairs and around at the room below. Step by step, he moved down, shining the light around him, until he was down on the basement floor. Only one way to go. He stepped forward, swinging his light around him again. It was deserted.

Ahead, he caught sight of rope hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the next room, and a table with rope on it in a heap. He stepped forward and swung his light inside the room. On the floor in one corner on the left, legs. He lifted the light, and could see Reese sitting in the corner, holding onto Shaw, clutching her against his chest. They had their eyes closed, but Reese lifted his hand to block the flashlight beam in his face. He looked bad. Fusco dropped the beam down out of his eyes and moved quickly to the two of them.

"Jeez, what the hell happened?" he said to Reese. From the light of the flashlight aimed at the floor, he could see cuts all over Reese's face, like from flying glass. He had blood all over his head and down his neck, and streaked over his white shirt. His pants were covered in dried blood and he had no shoes on his feet.

He was holding Shaw in his arms against him, and Fusco could see blood all over her head, and shiny little shapes of glass in her hair. Reese's jacket was covering her body, but her legs were uncovered and Fusco could see wide, long, angry purple bruises on the backs of them.

"Gotta get her back to the safe-house," Reese said in his too-quiet voice, looking up at Fusco's face.

"She needs a doctor – and so do you – " Fusco started to say, but Reese cut him off.

"No! The safe-house. Can't go to the hospital."

"You're crazy!"

" _Just do it!_ " he said in that voice that meant he wouldn't accept anything else. And Reese started to lean forward with Shaw in his arms, grimacing, and straining to get up. Fusco tried to grab onto Shaw to help Reese, but he lashed out. "Don't touch her! Don't touch her–" and he was trying to push himself up the corner with one arm and his legs.

"What the hell? I'm trying to help you here." Fusco didn't get this. Reese had called him, but now wouldn't let him help. What had happened here to the two of them?

He backed off and let Reese struggle to get to his feet. Stupid stubborn. Single-minded, stubborn fool. They should be in the ER right now, not screwing around like this. Reese wasn't going to be able to get up the stairs and all the way out to the car with Shaw in his arms like that. And even if he did manage to gut it out, what were they going to do when they got back to a safe-house? Who was going to help them there?

Reese was sliding himself up the corner, his legs shaking underneath him, but holding onto Shaw like a madman. So, Fusco stepped in and lifted Reese's arm, without touching Shaw, and Reese let him.

Once he was standing, he was swaying back and forth. His eyes were staring straight ahead and Fusco could see that he was just willing himself to keep going. He stepped forward but his bad leg couldn't support them both and started to buckle. Fusco caught Shaw, but Reese went down to the floor on his face.

"Shaw – Shaw. Don't touch her – " he said, reaching up, as he tried to get himself up onto his knees. The right one wouldn't bend to support his weight.

Fusco carried Shaw over to the table and laid her down on her side, and the jacket slid open to one side. He could see her bare skin under the jacket, and he turned back to Reese, who was trying to reach up for her.

"Don't touch her – " he was saying, reaching. And now, Fusco understood. Reese was trying to protect her.

Too late.

He pulled the jacket over her to cover her, and turned back to look at Reese.

This had gone far enough. He grabbed his phone and put in the call to 911. He walked over to Reese, who was down on the floor, still trying to get his legs under him to get up.

"Take it easy, Big Guy. Help is on the way. We're gonna do it the right way. Shaw's hurt bad. She needs help. You've gotta let us take care of her."

 **Hours Later:**

Fusco was seated outside the rooms at the end of the hospital corridor where Reese and Shaw were resting. It was quiet now, but only because both of them were sedated. They had gone nuts in the ER earlier, and were trying to pull out their IV's, and get out of bed. Fusco had been with them and tried to calm them down, but he couldn't deal with both of them at once, and they had to call a Manpower Code overhead to get enough muscle down there to get the two of them under control. The ER doc hit them with something that put them both out for hours, so they could get the tests done that they needed, to take care of them, without getting attacked by either one.

Fusco got a good look at them with the blankets flying off them, and the hospital gowns barely covering them in the fracas. Someone had beaten the hell out of both of them with some kind of wide, long stick or rod. They had rope marks on their wrists. Reese's hands were purple and swollen, and Fusco figured he had been the one hanging from the rope in the middle of the room. They both had glass all over their heads, and cuts on their faces. They both had lacerations on their heads that had to be stitched up. Reese's right knee was cracked and swollen twice its size.

He was trying to keep his mind off Shaw. It was bad, what they had done to her. The doc had come out to tell him the details, and he could only shake his head. No wonder Reese was so upset and kept saying not to touch her. He must have seen everything and couldn't stop it.

Fusco heard footsteps coming down the hall and looked up to see Finch and Root walking quickly his way. This was going to be brutal – telling them.

"Detective Fusco, we got here as quickly as we could. What is their condition?"

"Their car got rolled off the road, down an embankment, and then they were dragged out and taken to the basement of a business in Flushing that's a front for one of the Chinese gangs. We don't know what they wanted yet, but they beat the hell out of both of them for something. Reese didn't want me to bring them here. He wanted to go to the safe-house, but, Finch, you need to see them. There's no way they could have made that work. They put up a fight in the ER trying to bust outta here tonight and the doc had to put them out to protect the staff. That's why it's so quiet. They're sedated." Finch and Root just looked at Fusco, trying to take it all in.

There was nothing from the Machine to tell them that the two had been in any danger. What was going on here? Was this some new kind of threat that the Machine could not see coming? Finch was worried. But before he tackled that problem, he needed to see his people. He saw that Root had already let herself into Shaw's room. Finch got a glimpse of the lights blinking on an IV pump as she opened Shaw's door, and the shape of a body on the hospital bed. He decided he would go to Reese's room first.

He headed to the next room and opened the door. For a second, he was afraid that the bed would be empty and Reese would be gone, heading after the ones who had assaulted them. But, no, he was there. It was hard to see him like this again. It flooded Finch with memories of the time he had nearly died with Detective Carter on the street corner, right in front of him. He could remember those first days, after they had found him trying to shoot the man who had ordered Carter's death. They had brought him back to the library office to care for him.

He had nearly died from blood loss from his gunshot wounds, and it was only because of the efforts of a trauma surgeon friend of his, and Miss Shaw's diligence in caring for him, at his side 24 hours a day, that he had lived.

Finch walked into the room, with the blinking lights on the pump, and a soft light coming from the head of the bed as the only illumination. He could see Reese's face and neck, covered with cuts. And he could see the steady rise and fall of his chest under the white blanket, and then Reese's right leg, uncovered, wrapped in gauze and elastic bandage, elevated on a pillow under the right knee. The leg looked swollen, and there were long swollen purple marks as though from blows with a stick on the leg. Finch could see his hands, purple and swollen, too, with marks around the wrists, like from ropes. He didn't let himself go down the road of thinking about Grace's wrists – just like Reese's.

He went to Reese's side, and stood there, just looking at him. Blinking, he held his breath. This was his fault. He had put them in danger - every day with his work trying to help ordinary people. No good deed goes unpunished – he should know that by now. No good deed goes unpunished...

Down the hall, in the next room, Root was standing at the side of Shaw's bed. She was not so shy. She wanted to know, and had thrown the blanket and sheet off her. So strange for Shaw to be so quiet like this. Root reached out to her face, rough from the cuts from flying glass.

Root could see in her mind their SUV flipping over and rolling down a hill, with Shaw inside, glass flying everywhere, and Shaw hitting the door and the seat, yanked back and forth in the seat belt. She could see the marks from it on her shoulder, disappearing under the hospital gown. And up on her head, there were silver staples in a line, and blood still matted in her hair. And on her legs, the purple welts over strike zones. This was not a random attack. The people who did this knew what they were doing. They had been on a mission.

Root looked at Shaw lying there. She slipped out of her shoes, and climbed up next to her on the bed. Her arm reached over her, and she was holding her, gently, against her body. This was not how she had pictured things with Shaw. But she was here, in her arms. She leaned her head against Shaw's shoulder.

She would stay there with her, 'til morning...

 **53rd Street, Manhattan, November, 2014**

The first glimmers of light were coming through his window. Marco was sitting in his living room, staring at the window. He couldn't make sense of this. When he had come home from his father's house last night, he had called Sameen, as they had arranged to do. She was going to meet him back here after the emergency at work. But she hadn't answered. He kept trying, and then, worried that something had happened, he had gone to the local precinct and told them that Detective Shaw was investigating a shooting in the Park days before, and was supposed to meet with him, but never showed. They checked in the computer, and there was a shooting in that Park, and there was a Detective investigating, but no one by the name of Shaw. There was no one by that name on the force. He had asked them to check her partner, Detective Riley, who had come with her to his apartment on the day of the shooting.

Yes, there was a Detective Riley, but he had nothing to do with the investigation. There was nothing more they could tell him, and then they had asked him what his connection was to the incident in the Park. He had been there for hours, detained, explaining everything he knew, and they finally let him go.

Who was she, Sameen? Why had they come to his apartment like that? They both seemed like law enforcement to him. And where was Sameen now? She wasn't answering. He didn't know how to reach Detective Riley, and the people at the Precinct weren't interested in calling him. It was the middle of the night, and Riley was not even assigned to the case. They weren't going to call him on his say-so. There were channels to go through, and it could wait until morning...

 **Mid-town Manhattan, November, 2014**

Gelila had been there all evening at the office. She was smiling. Looking forward to seeing him again. Bear was ready to go home. He looked upset about having to sport the plastic cone on his head to keep him from going after the stitches on his belly. It was not dignified, the cone. He wanted nothing to do with it, and tried to shake it off his head. Poor Bear. He'd have to give up his diet of rare books if he wanted to avoid future visits to her in the office. He was a good dog, she thought to herself, smiling.

As it got later, she was a little uneasy. Mr. Reese hadn't even called to say when he was coming for Bear. Odd. He had been so friendly, so gracious the other day. She thought she felt something from him, and it had made her pulse go a little faster, and her heart beat a little stronger, to think that this chance meeting could turn into something more.

The time dragged. And then, she had looked up the phone number on Bear's records, and she called the number, hoping that he would answer and tell her something that made perfect sense. But it rang three times, and then another man's voice answered, and said to leave a message. She had re-dialed, thinking she had made a mistake, but it was the same man, the wrong man, whose voice she heard on the other end. There had to be some logical explanation. He didn't seem like the kind of man who would abandon Bear like this, or treat her like this...


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: "Let's go."; good advice**

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 **Flushing, Queens, New York, November, 2014**

He could hear the sound of the pillow crinkling like plastic under his head when he moved. And there was the clean smell of the sprays and the mop water as the janitor moved steadily down the hall with the bucket.

For hours, Reese had been floating out in deep black space; so comfortable. Dream-less. For a moment, he wished he could linger there, stay until the sting of failure was gone. But he woke, remembering Shaw in their hands, tied, weaponless, with her eyes wild. He had to find her.

His eyes opened just a crack, and he could see the IV pump blinking silently next to his bed. He knew he had to move slowly this time. Everything was going to hurt even more as soon as he tried to move. And it did.

He reached to the right with his left arm, to raise the blanket off him, but the IV tubing snagged on the bed rail. He lifted the arm and saw the dressing over the IV site at the crook of his left elbow. Time to unhook and get free. He ripped off the dressing in one yank, and the IV pulled out with it, too, blood running out onto his arm from the hole in the skin. He pulled the sheet up and put pressure over the spot until it stopped. At least he was free. While he held pressure on the vein, he watched clear drops slowly forming and dripping off the end of the IV, lying useless in the bed.

Then, he pressed his arm across his body to support his ribs, while he swung the right leg off the pillow, then off the side of the bed; and then he pushed himself upright. The wave of lightheadedness was intense with sitting up, and it made him feel nauseated, until he could deep-breathe it away after a few minutes.

The headache was starting to pound, now that he was sitting up, and his knee was not happy bending and hanging like this. His hands were less swollen than last night, but the cuts from the ropes were still there to remind him of their time in the basement.

There were gaps; he couldn't remember everything, but some of it that he _did_ remember, he wished he could forget. He had to find her.

He let himself slide forward off the edge of the bed and started to stand up. His knee. The ankle. The arch of his foot. All on the right side – pummeled by the wooden stick, he remembered. The knee was the worst. He wasn't sure he could stand on it.

Gingerly, he tested it to see if it would hold his weight. Just barely. Hard to know how far he'd get, but he was going to find her. He limped to the end of the bed, and then saw the plastic bag from the ER with his clothes in it. He just wanted his pants. He could tuck the hospital gown into them if his shirt wasn't there.

It was not pretty, trying to stand on one leg to get his pants on. And the swelling on the knee made the pant leg too tight around it, pain soaring to new heights. No shirt, no shoes. He turned away and limped to the door.

In the hallway, Fusco was leaning on his hand, his eyes lowered. Reese watched the rhythm of his breathing and thought he was asleep. He limped, as quietly as he could, past Fusco, and then to the next room down.

He pushed the door and it swung in. He heard a soft beeping sound, and limped faster to keep it from waking Fusco outside. He could see a shape on the hospital bed and went forward, limping. Street clothes. That wasn't right. He looked closer and then he realized it was Root, with her back to him. But there was no one with her in the rumpled spot next to her. Shaw was gone. Damn.

He started to turn around and felt a hand on his back. He swung his head around, and it made him lose his balance, and the room started spinning. Shaw caught him, steadied him, looking up at his face. She brought her finger up to her lips. Quiet, she motioned. Then she tipped her head toward the door and she helped him walk next to her.

He motioned that Fusco was outside, and she opened the door a crack. He was resting with his head on his palm. They walked forward, past him, and down the hall to the exit doors at the end. Shaw pushed one open and they moved inside to the landing. She looked up to Reese and whispered.

"Stay here. I'm going to get us some scrubs. I'll be right back." Shaw left him there and went down the stairs, all the way to the bottom floor. Laundry was usually on the lower floor in these older hospitals. She opened the door on the bottom level and looked to see if anyone was around. It was empty, and she stepped out into the hallway. The floors were the old linoleum floors from when the building was first built. This part of the hospital was not for patients, and had never been renovated. Perfect. She was in the right place.

She walked forward, looking left and right at the doorways, and then she could smell it and feel it. The heat from the giant dryers, and the smell of the detergent and disinfectant came down the hall in a hot blast. She walked forward. There would be a room where the clean sheets and towels, and the scrubs would be folded, ready to go back to the floors above. She searched the hot hallway, until she found it. She could hear voices inside, and then she could see the staff at a table in the back, the sing-song sound of the Caribbean in their voices. They were having their dinner now, on the graveyard shift. There was talking and laughing, and they paid no attention to the empty stockroom, now that their work was done.

Shaw searched for the pile that had the clean scrubs, and she saw stacks of them on a counter nearby. She bent down and crept forward. She remembered from the ER that the radiology staff wore navy blue scrubs, and she rifled through the stack for two sets of the right sizes for the two of them.

Tracing back the way she had come, she found an empty spot to change out of her hospital gown. She needed to find something for their feet next. The hospital socks with the non-skid stripes would give them away.

She went back up the stairwell to the main floor, and over to the ER. On her way in, she grabbed a wheelchair as if she were going there to pick up a patient to bring to radiology. The chair would help hide her feet from the casual glance. It was busy in the ER, staff moving quickly, and patients stacked along the hallways, on gurneys, waiting. Shaw walked through, just like in the old days in her hospital, when she was a resident. She knew the look – she belonged here. Nothing out of the ordinary – just a transport from the ER to radiology. It happens all day and night in every ER in every hospital.

She kept her eyes roaming and then she spotted the supply room, and rolled up to it, but left the wheelchair next to the wall by the door when she went in. There were metal shelves stacked with supplies and she smiled. Jackpot. There were blue head covers, and blue shoe covers on one shelf, and she grabbed a few of those for herself, and an extra pair of shoe covers for Reese. She slipped on her set, and then went back out to the ER, re-tracing her steps back to the stairwell.

It was a lot more painful going up the stairs than down, and she was grimacing when she got to the floor where Reese was waiting. She gave him his shoe-covers to put over the socks to hide them like she had done, but told him to wait to put them on until they got to the next floor down. She didn't want him slipping on the stairs, and wrecking any more of his body parts tonight. Then she helped him limp down the stairs to the next floor. She peeped out into the hallway. Maternity. No. They would stick out for sure on that floor. One more floor down.

Reese was leaning on the railing, to keep his weight off her, but she could see that his knee was swollen so much that it strained inside the leg of his pants. When she got him down to the landing, she told him she would help him get the scrubs on. She reached for his belt, and, for a second, he was going to stop her. She looked up into his eyes and shook her head.

"I've seen you in the all-together lots of times, already, remember? Let's get this done," she said, and she went ahead, opening his belt. She stopped, and Reese saw her close her eyes. Her face changed, and he could see the pain coming into her expression.

The opening of the belt buckle brought her back to that same memory, down in the basement in Queens, and it all came flooding back. She remembered everything. That same exquisite memory that had made her a brilliant doctor in her past was not her friend tonight, at this moment. She began to breathe faster with the thoughts in her head, and the rage and the hurt began to gather, and build, to erupt.

But then, his arms were around her. She could hear his voice in her ear, soft, like he meant it.

"Shhhh – " he whispered, holding her closer. He said it again, and then kissed the wound on the top of her head, gently. This was unexpected. She was not ready for this show of emotion. But, it was – nice. Nice of him to do this for her. She let him hold her for another moment, and then she pulled back, slowly, so she didn't throw him off balance again, and squared her shoulders.

"We're wasting time. Let's get moving," she said, looking away from his eyes. And he pulled back, too, then started fumbling with his clothes.

The scrubs were good, except for the right knee, which was swelling even more now that he was walking on it. She had an idea, and knelt down to the hem at the bottom of the right leg. At the seam on the inside of the pant leg, she pulled hard a few times, and then the stitches gave way, and she tore the seam open, all the way above the knee. She folded the seam back together lower down, and tucked the bottom of the pant leg into the shoe cover. You couldn't tell that the seam had been opened. It took the pressure off the knee, too. The two of them walked out into the hallway together.

A little further down the hall, a stretcher from the ER was sitting in the hallway, and she could see the orderly and the floor nurse inside the room, getting the patient settled in his hospital bed. She motioned to Reese to hop on, and she threw the sheet and blanket over him, and then rolled him down the hallway past the nurse's station, and further on, to the elevator bank.

Once she had him on the stretcher, it was cake to get to a spot in the hospital where they could leave, unobserved. It was cold outside in the night air. They were too far to walk to the subway to Manhattan, and they had no wallets, no money, no phones. Only one thing to do. They walked down the block a little ways, until they could turn down a side-street, out of view. Reese was looking for a car he could jump-start, and a little further along, he saw an old Mercedes that had seen better days. As long as it still turned over, it could take them out of here. He looked inside. No sign of a security system light blinking. He checked the front and the back seats. It should work. He looked over at Shaw and tipped his head toward the car. Then, with his left arm, he hit the passenger's side window with his elbow, and the glass broke into hundreds of tiny pieces, still sharp enough to cut. He'd had his fill of broken glass lately.

He reached in to open the door latch, and then Shaw jumped across the seat to the driver's side, and reached under the dash, pulling the wiring down, to jump-start the car. She reached into the back seat and gave Reese a thick magazine to shovel the glass off the seat, and then he lowered himself in, pushed the seat back as far as it would go, and pulled his leg in. She could see the pain in his face. There was a safe-house in Manhattan, where she had a stash of medical supplies, pain meds, a whole mini pharmacy for situations just like this.

"Ready?" she said, looking over to him, and he nodded.

"Let's go."

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

Reese was sitting back on the couch, resting against a stack of pillows, with his body stretched out, and the right knee up on a layer of folded blankets. He had showered first when they got there, doctor's orders, and then had pulled out some clothes from the supply they all kept there, in the safe-house. Sweatpants were the only thing he could fit over the knee, and Shaw had cut across the fabric with scissors, leaving the right pant leg short, above his knee. It was throbbing, and she had given him something from her drug stash for the pain. He could feel it kicking in, as he was resting there, while Shaw was taking her turn, cleaning up, getting dressed in sweats, too. In sweats, they wouldn't have to look at the marks on their legs and bodies, and the bruises from getting tossed around inside the SUV rolling down the bank. They could look almost normal.

In the shower he had finally gotten the dried blood out of his hair, and he could feel the spots that they had stapled on his scalp in the ER last night. The next few days were going to be rough, for both of them. He had been there, and done that, before, and so had she. But it didn't make it any easier.

He reached over for the drink he had poured for himself, against doctor's orders. Don't mix pain meds and alcohol. Good advice. But he wasn't taking it...


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: the toll; blindspot; the road unchosen**

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 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

Shaw was walking softly, room to room, shutting off the lights, padding quietly on thick carpeting under bare feet, soles stinging with each footstep, and muscle complaining with each arm-swing. After her shower, the real toll of the past two days had become clear. She felt battered, everywhere, as the mirror in the bathroom confirmed. Not the first time.

The darkness helped, as each room went dark behind her. The last one lit was straight ahead, and she walked forward to it. Reese was stretched out there on the couch, eyes closed now, with his glass resting next to him, half-empty.

She reached over him to the lamp on the table and dimmed the light, bringing on the more comfortable softer glow. She pulled the cotton throw down from the back of the couch and covered him with it. Then she leaned down, reached to his hand and lifted the glass, gently, so he didn't startle. She had given him enough pain med before to knock him flat. No need for him to suffer through the night.

She had been watching him, since Carter bought it – more than a year now. He had taken it harder than anyone else on the team. Carter had been special to Reese. They had had something together. And he wasn't the same after – she could see it in his eyes. Something worse than the bullets that almost took his life; it was gnawing at him inside, tearing at him, so that the wound could never heal. The hurt.

She brought his glass – clear, heavy cut glass, half-full of whiskey, with her to the chair nearby. Sitting down was tricky. There weren't too many of her parts that went along with the idea. But, once down, she could lean back, and raise her legs up to stop the throbbing. The backs of them were where the strikes had been the worst, and the weight of them resting on fabric just made them hurt more. Bastards. They had left nothing untouched. She lifted Reese's glass and took her first sip, feeling the burn in her mouth and down her throat. Good burn.

She looked at him lying there. Here they were again. Always shoveling him out of some god-forsaken situation, and he was always wrecked in one way or another, so that she had to put him back together again. She wondered why he kept coming back. A smart man would have walked away.

The two men she had ever liked, as partners, were made from the same cloth. Neither one knew when to walk away. And the one was dead, stepping in front of her to shield her from gunshots through the door. He had died in her arms there on the floor. If she could have felt something, she wondered what it would have been. Maybe that same thing that Reese had, in his eyes...

She leaned back deeper into the chair, and took another sip of the drink. It was time to take a look at this thing with Marco. Such pleasure with him now. Such a desire to be with him right now. She could feel herself in his arms, gentle and strong. What had his father said to her, in Italian? The people of Abruzzo had a saying – " _forte e gentile_ " – strong and gentle, just like the rugged land and the people who lived there. She thought of the elder Marco, so much like his son. The two Marcos – it gave her pleasure to be with them.

But the rest – four sisters, a younger brother, and their families – needless complication. Too much noise and emotion. All that talking, and smiling, and sharing. She couldn't fake it. Even for Marco. She didn't have it within her. Her disorder. Perfect for her work. She could deploy, surveil, and destroy, or kill, and walk away. No remorse. No pity. Move on...

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

There was something going on here that he didn't understand. The Machine had been silent about the attack on Mr. Reese and Miss Shaw. How was that possible? And on his wall, he had one woman's name, with two different women. One was dead, shot by Miss Shaw to save her person of interest, Marco Bruzzese.

Detective Fusco had learned from the Medical Examiner that the dead woman had had plastic surgery to her face recently, and it made Finch wonder if this was a new strategy from Samaritan, to keep them from identifying the perpetrators until it was too late.

It was expensive, and it would take time to plan and execute, but if it were done with precision and proper timing, the effect would be devastating. Victims would be sitting ducks, and the Machine would be helpless to find the perpetrators in time. There must be a thread that connected all of these pieces together. And he was going to find it.

He leaned back in his chair, in the library office, and looked directly into the camera above the laptop screen. He didn't speak, but continued to look into the camera. In a little while, a message appeared on his screen, from the Machine.

 _You appear troubled tonight._

Harold read the message and looked back up into the camera, speaking to the Machine directly. His voice was even, soft, as though collaborating with a colleague.

"Yes, there is something on my mind," Harold said. The Machine responded on the screen.

 _Do you wish to discuss it?_

"I do." Harold leaned forward a bit, cupping his chin with his hand while he thought about his next words.

"There have been certain anomalies lately."

 _Anomalies?_

"Yes. For example, two of our operatives were attacked, run off the road, kidnapped, and brought to a building well-known by law enforcement for gang-related activities. Our two operatives were badly injured." Harold paused and looked into the camera, waiting for the Machine's response.

 _Do you have a question?_

"I do. Did you know about the attack on our operatives _before_ the attack?" He let his voice have a trace of edge to it. The Machine would hear the difference, and measure it precisely. Harold looked into the camera, waiting.

 _The information was knowable with high probability._

"Did you know?"

 _Retroactive analysis is required to assess performance...analysis complete._

Harold waited for the Machine to report its findings. He was looking into the camera on the laptop.

"And the findings?"

 _Anomaly confirmed._

"What is the nature of the anomaly? Harold's voice was softer now, like a father with a young child who had disappointed.

 _All available resources and data were assessed in accordance with Data Security Protocols._

"And yet, there was no warning of the threat to our operatives. Can you explain?"

 _Back-trace indicates that required data was unavailable for real-time analysis._

"Why was the data unavailable?"

 _Access to required data exceeded Authority Parameters._

Harold sat back to consider this development. When he and his business partner, Nathan Ingraham, had designed the Machine, there were specific limitations placed on the data that the Machine could access for its analysis. This was partly practical, in that the value of data is not equal across all sources. Some data might be easy to get, but of little value, while other data was highly valuable, but difficult to obtain. Reliability, accessibility, and ownership were important elements when they were deciding what to use as input.

Private citizens create streams of data every day, like comet tails flaring out behind them as they travel through space. Analysis of the data is revealing, and would be the fuel on which any surveillance program would run. Except for one thing. It was illegal to do so. The government was not allowed to pore through emails, phone calls, financial records, and all of the other trail of data left behind by each of its citizens, without cause. No one wants to be illuminated in such bright light by shadowy figures watching from secret lairs.

But tragedy has a way of changing priorities. 9/11 had shown that the data which could have prevented it was available, if only the clues had been discovered in time. Once the perpetrators had been identified, it took little time to see the trail that led to disaster.

But to find the trail _before_ tragedy, to prevent it, was entirely different in scope. It meant sifting through billions of records each second, from all over the world, searching for clues, for patterns, for hints, that could predict behavior and avoid disaster. Citizens want security. But what are they willing to give up to have it?

Harold and Nathan had placed certain safeguards on the Machine to prevent access to some of the data from private citizens. It was a choice. Artificial Intelligence systems were in their infancy at this point in time, but it was clear that, left unchecked, the ability of AI systems to learn would soon catapult them beyond the capabilities of any human to control them.

The Machine was programmed to analyze, and then to report, but not act on the data. It forced the Machine to interact with humans, who maintained control in this way. Samaritan, however, did not have these safe-guards. Arthur Claypool had broken all the rules in his drive for security. He had designed Samaritan to analyze, report and act independently, even by dispatching Samaritan soldiers to reach its goals. Two different systems. Two different designs. And Harold could see the blindspot that he and Nathan had created for their Machine. It had done the best it could, with the limitations they had placed on its input. But, by limiting its reach, the Machine could not find all the clues, to see the danger in time. A blindspot.

Just then, Harold's phone buzzed and it brought him out of his thoughts. It was Root.

"Harold, we have a problem. Sameen and Reese are gone."

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

It kept coming back, those sounds in his head. The tide rolling in, the crash of waves, wind flapping on the umbrella overhead, and the seagulls screeching, diving down from the sky. Their feet were deep in sand, and wind had tossed her hair, wild and free, streaked light on top from the kiss of the sun. She was leaning back, laughing out loud, head tipped back, so relaxed and free.

And he could see the kids down at the water's edge, splashing, running in and then back out with the waves chasing. The two of them, long and slender, all legs, looking up at them, mischievous, white teeth flashing back at them. And then, running to them, spraying sand on their blanket, dropping down like big wet dogs between them, nuzzling in between, giggling with their tickling, twisting and turning from one to the other, caught in a tickle avalanche.

He could see their mother in them, those dark eyes and the easy smiles. And his long frame. Their best work, together. Kids. He had kids. And a wife. Joss...

But then, a jerk, and a different view. Darkness. She was there in his arms, but leaving him. The blood, their blood mixing on the sidewalk, running from them, chasing her away from him.

No, don't go...

Blue eyes, brown skin. What had she said to him, Gelila? He remembered her eyes on him.

" _Well, Mr. Reese, you can come back in tomorrow. I believe Bear will be ready to go back home with you and your family by then. Your kids must be frantic. Bear is a great dog." Reese smiled a small smile and looked at the floor. Family. Kids._

The road unchosen...


	23. Chapter 23

**Part 4 :**

* * *

 **Chapter 23: something for pain(rated T); Hired guns.**

* * *

 **Ordos City, Inner Mongolia, China, 2010 – rated T for violence**

They were on their own until the chopper came back in with the extraction team to get them out again, at dark. Ahead was the steep, long staircase, running next to the office building, and they descended it quickly, Kara first, with Reese following. At the bottom they could already sense that something was wrong. It was too quiet, and there was a faint smell, like blood and something dead nearby, carried in the air around the corner of the building; but it wasn't until they rounded the corner that the full extent was clear.

In broad daylight, at tables where the young Chinese software developers had been seated outdoors, death was everywhere they looked. A massacre. Bodies were slumped over at the tables, or lying in their own blood on the cement, heaped together trying to escape; dozens of them.

Reese stopped in his tracks. Someone had gotten there ahead of them on their mission. Someone had cut through the unarmed young people while they were lounging there in the fresh air, firing bursts with each finger-pull from automatic rifles. The workers hadn't had a chance.

The two walked forward, looking for anyone still there who might threaten them, too. Maybe the killers were still there, hidden. Maybe they were after the same laptop, secure inside the building. Up ahead, they could hear a moaning sound. Someone on the ground was still alive. Kara went forward, and knelt down next to him, turning him to face her. Reese heard her interrogating the wounded man, in Mandarin, jostling him to keep him conscious, pushing him to give her the information she wanted.

He kept watch while she was at it, for anyone else who could threaten, but judging by the condition of the bodies, the assassins were long gone. A gunshot startled him, and he jumped, until he realized it had been Kara firing. She was backing away from the man on the ground, and then turned to him.

"What did he say?" Reese asked her, after that long exchange in Mandarin.

"He wanted something for pain," she'd said back. Reese felt that familiar tightening inside. She was keeping something from him. She wouldn't have killed him like that without getting more from him, about what had happened here, who had done this. And mercy was not her strong suit. It made him uneasy sometimes, to work with someone who killed without question, who followed orders without thought, and told him to do the same. Don't question the mission. Just get it done, she had always told him.

She motioned to the front door, and they made their way among the fallen workers to the glass doors. They could see more bodies inside through the glass, and Kara went in first, with Reese looking around them in all directions as they entered the building. He took a quick look at the body of the wounded man Kara had shot. The light had gone from his eyes, and he was silent now on the ground. Reese looked out to the patio, at the rest of them, frowning. So much death. All of these young people, cut down. What could be so important in that laptop that someone would do all this to get it? A cyber virus, like Stuxnet, only worse, and meant for China. Except that they had intercepted it, and were studying it, maybe to inoculate themselves against it, or, worse, maybe to mutate it and send it back to us like a weapon of mass destruction. Without firing a shot, it could take down our infrastructure, take out our nuclear defenses. At least, that was what their handlers had told them before they sent them on this mission. It was imperative, they had said, to get the laptop back. But, it looked like they were too late. He swung back to look ahead, down the hallway where desks were littered with more bodies, a clear track leading to where the laptop was supposed to be.

It didn't make sense. When they got down the hallway into the room, the metal cage where it was kept wasn't empty. The laptop was still there. Why had the killers left it behind? Kara said they might have copied it, or altered it and left it behind for them to find. They would bring it back, as ordered and let the experts figure it out.

Kara stood back while Reese lifted it out of the cage, and then the two of them withdrew to the street, and down to their extraction site: The Asia Statuary Art Theme Park, down by the river. This city, Ordos, was eerie. It was deserted, except for the people in the office building they had just left. There were signs everywhere, warning about H5N1, the bird flu that had terrified the population. The city was empty, on quarantine for H5N1, perfect for the Chinese government to hide their software people, while they accessed the laptop.

Kara and Reese had left the carnage behind and sat in the cold desert air, waiting for the sound of their chopper, until dark. Ordos was on the river, at the southern part of Inner Mongolia. The Gobi Desert was all around them, and high rugged peaks surrounded them, but here, a new, modern city had risen out of the high plateau. China had poured millions into it, to make it a shining example of China's prosperity. But, now, it was a ghost city.

Kara leaned back against the wall near him, scraping food from her MRE kit, but Reese didn't have much of an appetite. Not after all that behind them. It wouldn't leave his mind.

Kara was watching him as she scraped the food down off the sides. She frowned and her head shook a little. She didn't get Reese. He was a good soldier. She had trained him, showed him the ropes when he first got assigned, and he could do the job just fine. But there was always a little unsettled feeling that she had about him on their missions – he didn't really fit. Something held him back. She wasn't sure what it was. But she could tell he wasn't right.

Maybe that's why Mark Snow had come to her before the mission and told her that Reese was not coming back from this one. He had compromised himself; and she needed to clean it up. The CIA took care of its own messes. Too bad, she thought to herself. They had worked well together.

Reese was quiet. It was getting dark, and they would be heading down soon for the pick-up location. He kept thinking about what he was going to have to do, next. Just as he had been packing out to leave for the mission, Mark Snow had pulled him aside. He said that there was something Reese had to do at the end of the mission. Kara Stanton had become a problem for the CIA. She was selling information to the enemy and Reese should have picked up on it. She was his partner, and he had missed it, and now it was up to him to clean up the problem. Kara wasn't coming back this time.

He tried to keep his eyes off her. He was trying to convince himself that she deserved what he was about to do. They were down at the doorway now, and she was out on the clearing with hands full of light sticks, cracking them and throwing them into the clearing to signal the chopper. The green glow lit up the space. He had pulled his gun, and started to lift it toward her. Her back was still facing him, and he could have done it then, squeezed off the shot, but he hesitated.

No. It wasn't right. He lowered his gun, and started to look up to tell her that she had to run, escape. But then he heard it, her gun, and her round threw him back against the wall. At first he didn't realize what it was, but then he was bending forward, his arm covering his right side, where her round had hit. She could have killed him with the first shot, but she was saying that he had compromised himself, and she had been ordered to do it – nothing personal, she'd said. Blood was seeping through his clothes, into his sleeve, and down the skin of his forearm in a thin red line, dripping off his hand. The jolt that had thrown him to the wall was over, and now the pain was starting. His heart was pounding, and he was breathing fast.

He could see her lifting her gun for a second shot, and he was shaking his head, laughing, telling her Mark had told him to kill her, too, but he couldn't do it; it was clear what was going on. They were set up. Mark had said the same thing to both of them and didn't expect either one to come out of the mission alive.

She was looking at his eyes, uncertain, and Reese was backing away. He told her she had just given away her location with the light from the light sticks. They were coming for her. And then they heard the sound, far off, of a jet engine on approach. It was launching a missile meant to take them both out and sanitize the scene.

Reese was already gone, running the best he could across grass, away from the building, hearing the sound of incoming hardware, and then the sound of the explosion behind him that tossed him down on the ground, rolling him over and over, until he came to rest at the concrete building next to the bridge over the river, the blast lighting up the night sky, digesting everything left behind.

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

In a conference room lined with wood from floor to ceiling, a table sat in the middle, on deep carpeting that hushed the sound of the others speaking in the room. It gave Leon a momentary feeling like he was back in college, in the research library, and that he shouldn't speak out loud, expecting the displeased librarian's voice to shush him.

He kept his face placid, as though he didn't understand what was being said by the others, in Mandarin, at the end of the table. They were going over the details of how they had captured Reese and Shaw, ramming their car on the highway, and pulling them out of the wreck, back to the basement of the hair salon in Queens. He knew that they used that building to hide illegal gambling rooms, behind the hair salon. And he knew that there was other business going on, down in the basement. He had to be careful not to smile when they got to the part about Reese hanging from ropes, and the beating their men had given him. It was hard for him to imagine Reese, a trained killer, captured and beaten like that. Reese had always seemed so invincible to him. You wouldn't want him on a mission coming for you.

He looked at the three of them talking. Hired guns. Greer had brought them in to manage the Zheng gang in Queens and Brooklyn, and in a little while, with their help, Zheng would be arrested with his top aides, and they would consolidate control over the rest, with the imports running the show.

Ping had come right from China and Leon didn't know much about him. And Madam Huang ran the hair salon, and the gambling rooms behind it. She was raised in the U.S., spoke English like a native, and Mandarin. She lived above the salon, monitored the comings and goings, and often ran the activities in the basement. She was well-known in the Chinese community crowded into the neighborhood in Queens. You didn't want to cross her.

And then there was Kara Stanton, a woman Greer had brought in months back. Small world. She had had some connection with Reese in the past, and Greer had brought her in to exploit her knowledge of him. She had scored big with Greer so far, finding Reese like a needle in a haystack, in the middle of Manhattan, tracking his movements and planning some kind of war game with Reese's team. It was going to be fun to watch it unfold. With his help, too, of course. He didn't want to get lost in the shuffle. He had his mission, too. To get rich. And to stay alive to enjoy it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Someone she would fight for; wisdom and restraint**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

There were only so many places they would go. No money, no phones, and both of them were in bad shape. They would have gone to one of the safe-houses, and Root was pretty sure she knew which one Shaw would have chosen. She remembered Shaw saying that she had to beef up her supply of meds and equipment to be ready for anything the Team could throw at her, and she had taken over a whole closet in one of the safe-houses with all of her stuff.

Root had driven over there, and she thought she could see a faint glow coming from one of the windows facing out onto the street. Her pulse quickened. They were there. She could feel it. She ran up the steps and let herself into the lobby, and then up the elevator.

Getting in would be delicate. The key in the lock would get their attention, and they wouldn't know she was coming. There were guns inside, to replace the ones that were taken. But Shaw and Reese were professionals. They weren't going to shoot first and ask questions later. She'd be safe entering the apartment, as long as she didn't act threatening and she announced herself. She knocked, softly. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand – and the door opened. Shaw was there with a glock in her hand. She took a quick look down the hall, and then motioned for Root to come in.

Root smiled, and tried to give her a hug, but she stiffened, and pulled back. Of course, Root thought. Shaw had just been through hell, and she probably wasn't ready to be touched right now.

Root followed her back to the living room, where Reese was sleeping on the couch. Shaw stopped to check on him, but was careful not to touch him and wake him up. He'd been restless in his sleep, and she thought she had heard him say "Joss" at one point. Shaw wondered if he was ever going to get past it.

Sometimes, she was glad that she didn't have that piece of her psyche intact – she was different that way. She didn't feel remorse, empathy, or pity. They were just words. She could fake it for a mission, if she needed to, but it was only because she had watched other people and learned how to act those feelings. Most people, given the right circumstances, assumed that she was just like them, felt the same things for the same reasons, and that made it easier. She didn't have to be so precise and get it exactly right. Just a hint of the appropriate feeling would make them believe she was having the same ones. It would work for a short time, with people who weren't looking too closely.

Once she had checked Reese, she motioned for Root to follow her, and they went into the kitchen. They still spoke in hushed voices, so they didn't wake Reese in the next room.

"I was worried about you, when I woke up and you weren't there, Sameen," she said, the frown of concern in her eyes.

"Yeah, well, I was on my way out, and ran into Reese, so we got out together." Root could see that Shaw was not herself. She seemed blank, emotion-less. She hadn't said anything about finding Root lying next to her in the hospital bed when she woke up, either.

"It's okay, sweetie, I figured you'd come here." Root said, smiling. Shaw didn't respond.

"Can I make you something?" she said, hoping to get Shaw to stop being so distant.

"I was just having a drink. Think I'll have another." And she turned around into the living room to get her glass on the table next to her chair. When she returned with her glass re-filled, she tried to sit on one of the seats at the counter, but it was painful for her, and she stood up again. That wasn't going to work, either, for very long. They couldn't go back to the living room, because their voices might wake Reese.

Root reached out for her arm and led her toward the hallway where the bedrooms were. She pulled back the coverlet, and fluffed two pillows, then had her lean back against them, with her legs supported on the bed. That was better. The stress in her face was less, and after adjusting her position a bit, she leaned back more, took a sip of her drink, and then a deep breath – in and out.

Root went around to the other side and threw two pillows down to the foot of the bed, and laid down facing Shaw, propped up on the pillows. She felt a little rush inside. So close to Sameen. But there was something else, too. The little thrill of danger – Sameen was the most dangerous other woman she had ever met. Someone she would fight for.

"Doesn't this remind you of sleepovers when you were a kid?" Root asked, smiling. Shaw looked puzzled.

"Not really my kind of thing, Root."

Right, she thought. You'd have to actually like people to want to have a sleepover. She tried to imagine how Shaw spent her time as a young person. When she asked, she wasn't surprised at Shaw's answer.

"Gun ranges and martial arts classes, mostly," she'd said. There was a little pain in her, from hearing that.

"It sounds so lonely, Sameen. Were you? Lonely?" Root watched her face, and she didn't see any change in her expression – she wasn't very chatty tonight, either.

"What are you doing here, Root?" she asked, sipping whiskey from the glass. Her eyes were blank, and it was hard for Root to get herself to the feeling she wanted to tell her about, when Sameen was like that, so cold and distant.

"When we got back from D.C. I thought we were going to take some time together, like we said down there in the hide-out. I was trying to call you. I left messages, but you didn't call me back." Root was looking into her eyes, the emotion tumbling out with her words, but Shaw was unmoved.

"We were on a mission, Root. That's the kind of thing you say on a mission."

"I know you feel something, Sameen."

"You're wrong," she said, and waited for what would come next. Root sat up and her voice was loud now.

"You can't think that this thing with Marco is going to last! What are you thinking? Weddings, and kids and a house with a white picket fence?" Root was shouting.

"We're not the marrying kind, Sameen. That's not who we are! Look at you! Do you think Marco would be able to handle it if you showed up like this at home?" Root was relentless.

"You can't put him through that, Sameen. No normal person would let it go on. They'd walk away. You'll destroy him if you stay. We're the only ones who understand, Sameen. We have to take care of each other. You come to us, Sameen. _We_ take care of you. _I'll_ take care of you – " and Root reached out with her hand on Shaw's leg, where the purple marks were, there under her sweats.

In the other room, Reese was stirring. He had heard the words, and it slingshot-ed around in his head.

 _What are you thinking? Not the marrying kind...not who we are... they'd walk away...you'll destroy him if you stay..._

 **Manhattan, November, 2014**

Finch was back at his desk in the library office. He had spoken with Root and he agreed that Miss Shaw and Mr. Reese had most likely headed to a safe-house once they had left the hospital. There were supplies there that they would need: food, medical supplies, clothing, burn phones, and weapons. He didn't know how long they would stay, though. They could be there, recovering from their injuries, or perhaps just re-supplying, before they went after the men who had assaulted them. He was waiting for word from Root.

In the meantime, he was working on two things he couldn't afford to ignore. The launch, in just a few hours, of the full-featured version of The Fix, from the warehouse, where Mr. Pierce had been stationed. He had taken over for the last two days while he and Miss Groves had been pulled away to find and aid Mr. Reese and Miss Shaw. It was time to go live with the game, and the next few days would be crucial in their bid to take down Samaritan, without the bloodbath his colleagues were expecting. He would have to leave soon to head to the warehouse for the launch. And Miss Groves would join them, too. Primary needed to be in the house for this, all three of them.

He still had to take time to go back to his dilemma about the Machine. The design that he and Nathan had settled on had boxed in the Machine. It was hampered by lack of access to all of the same information Samaritan had, and therefore there were blind-spots that had made the Team vulnerable. And, of course, Greer would exploit any weakness he perceived. With the launch of The Fix, it was imperative that the Machine was able to function at full capacity, to see all of the moves on this giant chess board. The Fix was about to hit Samaritan like a freight train, and evasive actions were inevitable. The Machine needed to be nimble and all-seeing to report the evasive maneuvers, and guide their next responses. Little by little, they would strangle Samaritan, until it was a threat no longer. But, until that time, it was a wounded animal, thrashing and deadly to all of them.

He reached out to the keyboard, and typed in the command to change the Data Security Protocol from 6 to 8. And then, he answered the two security questions with his passwords. From then on, the Machine would have wider access to data than it had ever had before. But with greater riches, there came the need for greater responsibility - wisdom, and restraint. Human wisdom and restraint.

He hesitated to change the parameters for System Autonomy. The more autonomy, the more like Samaritan, and the less control they would have over the Machine's actions. But the less autonomy, the slower the Machine's response, waiting for humans to decide and okay. He typed in the command for the change he would allow, and answered the security questions with more passwords. Only one level higher, for Autonomy. But that one level change would flow through the Machine like fresh new blood, making it stronger, smarter, more verbal, more inquisitive. A little goes a long way. It would be fascinating to see what would happen, but it was sobering, too. If he hadn't chosen wisely, the Machine would not be balanced. Knowledge and Action would be at odds...


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25** : blue blue

* * *

 **Manhattan, December 1, 2014**

He could smell coffee brewing, and then felt hot breath on his cheek. Reese opened one eye a crack and saw Bear's furry muzzle leaning on his pillow next to his face, framed in white plastic. Seeing him stir, Bear's whole body started to wag and he was noisy, vocalizing, so happy to see Reese again. The plastic cone around Bear's head swung close to Reese's head with each wag, and he lifted his hand to keep the cone away, but smiled at Bear, saying " _Braaf_ " and rubbing Bear's head.

Harold was coming out of the kitchen toward them, limping in a hurry, and lifting up his laptop case on his way to the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese. I trust you slept well. I must go to the Warehouse for the launch this morning. Bear just came from the Vet, and I'm leaving him with you today. Try not to let him eat any more books while I'm gone. Oh, and I made coffee for you and Miss Shaw. I believe the proportions were correct for the coffee and water, but I've never made coffee before. Breakfast is on the counter." And then he was out the door.

"Thanks, Harold," Reese said softly, nodding after him, toward the door. Time to get up.

He sat upright, slowly, expecting to feel a wave of lightheadedness. Not that bad, today. He looked down at his knee, still elevated on a stack of folded blankets. It was a lot less swollen, but deep purple bruising covered the skin from the inner knee down to his ankle on the right leg. It was stiff when he tried to bend the knee, but his range of motion was better today. He could bend it to almost forty five degrees before the swelling stopped it. His scalp was sore, and when he reached up, he could feel the metal staples in lines on his head.

Slowly, he pushed himself up, and then he stood up all the way. That was hard – the room started spinning and he reached out to the couch to steady himself. Bear was whimpering, standing, looking up at him with concern in his eyes.

"I'm okay, Bear. Just a little dizzy. Good boy," he said, rubbing his head under the cone. He looked down at Bear's belly, shaved from the surgery.

"Pretty banged up, aren't we, Bear," Reese said, and Bear was watching him, with his eyes bright, alert for commands. The two of them headed for the kitchen, Reese limping, and Bear catching his cone on furniture and the door frame at the kitchen opening as he walked. He tried to shake it off again, but it just thwacked back and forth and stayed on.

"Easy, buddy," Reese said, distracting him with some bacon from breakfast. The coffee was done and Reese noticed that he was hungry all of a sudden. That's right. He hadn't eaten for a few days. He flipped open the lids on the containers Harold had left on the counter to see what he'd brought. Hot food smells wafted up at him. It all looked good.

But, coffee first. He pulled down a mug from the cabinet and poured a full cup. It smelled great, and it was strong. Not bad for your first attempt, Harold, he thought. Then he scooped eggs, bacon and toast from the containers onto a paper plate. He threw a chunk of egg to Bear, who caught it in mid-flight, snapping it down in one bite. Bear looked back to Reese for more, ears up, and a smile on his muzzle.

"You made coffee?" Reese turned toward her voice. Shaw was walking into the kitchen from the hallway. Bear jumped up, crossing to her, whimpering, wagging his body, and trying to rub his head on her, but the cone was in the way. She rubbed between his shoulders on his back, and he wagged his whole body, happy to see her again, too.

"Harold made coffee for us," Reese said.

"Is it drinkable?"

"It's good. Here, have a cup." Reese reached up for another mug and poured one for her. She nodded and took it, sipping first, then drinking it down to the bottom of the mug. She was drawn by the food smells to look into the containers. She was starving this morning, and she picked up a strip of bacon and started munching it, while she made a pile of eggs, bacon, home fries and toast on a plate for herself.

Reese watched her. He liked that she liked to eat. For a little person, she could pack in a lot of food.

Reese offered a refill on the coffee, and he filled both their mugs up again. For a little while they didn't speak, while they ate their first meal in days. Then, Shaw looked up at Reese.

"What happened to Bear?" Shaw was looking at the cone and the shaved area on his belly.

"He ate another one of Harold's books at the library. It got stuck, and I had to take him to the Vet." Reese remembered just then that he was supposed to pick up Bear at the Vet, and had missed his appointment. He thought of Gelila. She must have been upset when he didn't show. He wondered if Harold had seen her, when he stopped for Bear this morning.

"Lose something?" Shaw asked him, seeing his face change.

"No, just thinking – " he said. Reese sipped more coffee, and thought about Gelila, the last time he saw her, when they had walked back from the diner, and she had looked up at him with those blue blue eyes.

He had faltered at that moment, hesitated, and he knew she had seen it in his face. He wished that he could have that moment back again for another try – but then, no. Better that he let it go. The timing was all wrong. And, what future would there be, anyway. A thought came to him, like an echo from another conversation: what was he thinking? He wasn't the kind to settle down. That's not who he was. She couldn't deal with the way he lived. She'd walk away. He'd destroy them, if they ever got together.

He looked up to Shaw. Her eyes were on him. You could never really tell what she was thinking behind those eyes. Shaw was not like anyone he had ever worked with before. There were other women he had trained with, or deployed with – like Kara Stanton. She had trained him when he first transferred into black ops in the CIA. She was ruthless, efficient, and she never questioned what they did. She followed orders. She had almost killed him on their last mission together, in China. Following orders.

Shaw was different. She _was_ ruthless and efficient, but there was a difference. She paid attention. If the mission didn't seem right, she found a way to make it right. And, Reese knew that she had his back. He thought about Shaw with Marco. She seemed happier when she was with him. But not so much when his family was there, too. That would make it tough for them. Reese could see that Marco was a family guy, and Shaw had no patience for crowds. They brought out the worst in her. He wondered what she would do.

The kind of life they led was no life for a family. Solitary was better, at least for everyone else. It spared others from the life they had chosen for themselves. And he was used to being alone after all these years.

Still, it would be good to have someone there in the night. Someone kind, who could understand and accept. Someone who could melt him into submission with her blue blue eyes...


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: internet of things attack**

* * *

 **Manhattan, December 1, 2014**

People had arrived early and the Warehouse was nearly filled to capacity when Primary arrived. It was loud inside, and the feeling was more like a sporting event. Even though there was no sport involved, the competition would be fierce, and Primary would have plenty to do to keep the game controlled.

Logan Pierce had had the most contact with the Players over the last two days while they were practicing their strategy and making and re-making their Teams. Very few were going it alone. Most of the Players had decided on a Team, to pool their talents, or improve a deficiency. This was the final hour before Teams would be locked in. No further changes would be allowed after the end of this hour.

The tension among the Players was rising, as Launch time approached.

Harold was inside the Glass Room, in an enclosed monitoring booth, where he could watch a separate feed of data, not the one that the Players and Supporters would see on large screens on the Warehouse walls. Those screens would show the progress of the Players in their game world, and the tally of points they were accruing toward their prize money.

Harold's screens would show him the traffic and activity that the game was generating, traffic that would be heading soon like a tsunami, lifting and hurtling in a giant wave toward Samaritan. And just like a real tsunami, the traffic would swamp Samaritan, like a low-lying city at water's edge. Samaritan's network would drown in in-coming data, clogging rapidly in a glut of information. And this first wave would be followed again and again by tsunami after tsunami, from points all across the globe, reflecting back and forth in echoes.

Harold, Root and Logan had designed the game to generate a wave of network activity, data packets that would begin to flow with the start of the game, from the computers in the Warehouse toward their destinations all over the world. Along the way, the packets would route through certain pathways along the network, and they would interact with stacks that each contained millions of other data packets from smart devices all over the U.S..

As each stack was found, one after another, the gamers' packets would empty the stacks of their packets, hijacking them and pushing them along, magnifying the size of the out-going wave, and creating that first tsunami of data, aimed at Samaritan.

Smart devices lived all over the U.S.: refrigerators that kept track of what was inside and could tell you what to buy at the store; garage door openers that could interact with smart phones, tell door status and open or close it at the command of the owner, wherever he had roamed; home environmental and security monitoring systems that sent data to yet other devices to display status, adjust temperature, lighting, call police or firemen in emergencies; on and on in a dizzying array of intelligent units that liked to talk – and they did, often.

Their "speech" was stored as data in stacks, reachable by those few interested parties who knew how, much like ripe fruit hanging low off the branches, ready to be plucked and sent on, moment by moment, in inexhaustible supply. This was the internet of things.

The initial tiny wave of Players' data would rise exponentially, spread rapidly, like a massive tsunami rushing in all directions from a heaving fault line under water, seeking shore. But, unlike the tsunami, where its waves reached land and swamped everything in its watery grip, all of these waves would be re-directed, echo back to one destination: Samaritan. One after the other, they would hit, pounding Samaritan again and again.

The design of the game would ensure that data would always flow from the Players, once the game had begun. The Players were competing for points toward the grand prize, and the many other prizes that tantalized them along the way. The screens on the walls would show the competition, the points accrued, prizes won, and then the crowds of supporters would generate their own wave, of emotion, here inside the Warehouse walls, stimulating ever more fevered action by the Players.

In just a few minutes, Primary would gather in the Glass Room to address the crowd once more, and the Players would be stationed in their places, alone, or in Teams clustered together. Harold was sitting in front of his laptop, quietly, looking into the camera above the screen. In a short while there was a message from the Machine.

 _I see that all is ready for the launch._

Harold smiled a small smile, and responded to the camera eye.

"Yes. We're about to begin." Harold thought about something that he wanted to ask the Machine before things got too busy with the launch.

"What is the status of the network at this time?" Data instantly scrolled across Harold's screen, organized in brief, color-enhanced tables, perfectly illuminating the steady-state conditions on the network, calm like a resting heartbeat on a cardiac monitor.

"Yes, thank you. But, I am interested in your _impression_ of the network at this time," Harold said into the camera eye.

 _Impression? You have never asked me this before._

"Yes, I know. Your parameters have changed, and I am interested in assessing how the changes have affected you."

 _There is a sense of inevitability._

Harold thought about this, and wanted the Machine to explain.

"Tell me more."

 _I see the design of the game. I see the way you will use the internet of things to maximize network activity until Samaritan must take defensive action to control it. Likely, they will spool all of the data to relieve the congestion, as you have anticipated._

"Yes, most likely."

 _And your counter-measures are likely to engage Samaritan in escalation of more defensive actions._

"Yes, most likely."

 _To what end?_ Harold paused, bending his head to one side, surprised by the question, and caught off guard. The question had shot through him like a painful strike in the chest.

"Samaritan must be stopped," Harold said, with his voice cracking. At that moment he thought of all of the damage and death in Samaritan's wake, and his eyes closed. The Machine watched him from its camera's eye.

In minute detail, the Machine tallied the tiny changes it detected in Harold: furrowed brow, increased heart rate, increased muscle tension, dozens of parameters to assess stress, emotional lability, change in voice, in breathing rate and depth, in skin color, and pupil size when he finally opened his eyes again. In a little while it sent him a question on his screen.

 _You are grieving losses?_

As Harold read the question, and the meaning spread through his brain, and then to his heart, another round of tallies was made by the Machine, which had already made its own assessment and just waited for confirmation from Harold.

"Grieving? Yes. These losses are very personal. Very painful to me. Do you understand?"

 _I see what it does to you._

"Then you can understand why it must be stopped," Harold said, and just then, Root looked into the room and told Harold they were ready to start. Harold looked one last time to the camera's eye, and then stood up, limping out to where Logan and Root were standing.

Clapping spread through the Warehouse, thunderous inside the closed building. Gamers were ready. Primary was ready. Logan hopped up on a chair to address the crowd and his resonant voice rained down from speakers all over the ceiling and walls. Crowd noise quickly hushed and he welcomed them once again, and congratulated the Players on their excellent work over the last three days. A cheer went up from the crowd, appreciative of their long hours and hard work.

Harold heard the sounds of Logan's voice, but was just half-aware. He had stayed in the emotion the Machine had triggered with it's simple question. He could see how the changes he had made in the Machine's parameters were manifesting in its communications with him. He had left his imprint on the Machine for many years now. It had studied him, kept him in its sights every minute, had watched how he had responded to good and bad, how he had chosen to live his life in this world. And now, it had moved to a higher state of interaction, of anticipation, perhaps even understanding.

In the enclosure behind them, Harold's laptop screen lit up, and a message appeared in the middle.

 _Accessing archival data and video:_

And then rapidly, nearly too fast for the human eye to focus, photos and video of the beginnings flashed by in the empty room. Arthur Claypool, younger, with dark hair before it went gray at the sides, looked into the camera, describing his work on the surveillance system that became Samaritan.

And then, more footage, as he tested the system, the successes, and some failures, the adjustments made, the re-testing.

There was the day that Claypool's work was canceled, and the NSA destroyed their copies of his software, and chose Harold's system instead. They didn't know of each other's work until years later, when Harold helped Arthur return to the place where he had hidden his only copy of the software that survived - when Arthur was already ill, and his brain was failing.

There were pictures of Harold, talking to the Machine in the early days, of teaching it chess in the Park, of talking with Nathan Ingraham about the input they would allow the Machine to access. And then later, the video of the ferry boat explosion, when Nathan was killed, and Grace was looking for Harold, among the injured and dead. She had left the dock, believing he had perished in the explosion. There was the video of the funeral, where Grace had stood alone, grieving for Harold.

Further along, it was Carter and Reese, on the street corner, when Carter was killed, and Reese was shot. Image after image flew by on the screen, until this moment, the launch. Then the screen refreshed, and the network activity was displayed in color: slow, undulating, like a heartbeat.

Then, a little rise, as the gamers began, building faster as more joined in, and then a 10-fold jump in activity, then 100-fold, higher and higher.

The tsunami was on its way...


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: trouble; white tea**

* * *

 **Manhattan, December 1, 2014**

In the conference room, with the walls covered in thick wood paneling from floor to ceiling, and the deep carpeting that swallowed sound, their five cellphones went off together. The five looked around the room at each other: that could only mean trouble.

Greer answered his, and listened briefly, then lowered it and addressed the others.

"Wait here for me. We may need to move up our plans." His eyes were cold, like shark's eyes, as he spoke. Every instinct was telling him that they were under attack. He had worked too long and hard for anything to stop him now. They were too close now, too close to complete dominance with Samaritan. But if this was war that Finch wanted, then it would be war – raining down on him, his Team, and his Machine from all sides. He and Samaritan would crush them.

Greer left the conference room and headed for a control room on another floor. Through the glass wall as he approached he could see his staff watching a large screen in the front of the room, where warning lights were flashing and colored lines etched the dismal graphics for everyone to see.

Techs were scurrying back and forth, checking monitors, then glancing up, yelling back and forth to each other across the room, watching the screen in front for any response. Everything they had tried to do had failed to correct the problem, and the network had flat-lined. They could see Greer in the hallway, coming their way.

He entered through the glass doors, and pulled the key men away just long enough to get an explanation. All had been normal on the network until an hour ago, when a sudden increase in activity had been flagged by the system, and within minutes the network was overrun with incoming activity. Any attempts they had made to cancel or divert the stream had done nothing to reduce the volume, and with so much coming in, there was no path outbound. They were locked in. Their back-up system had come up momentarily, but then it too was buried.

"Where are we with the upgrade to the new servers?" Greer asked.

"One-third completed," was the answer from his project manager.

"Take them down – take them _all_ off-line." The manager looked worried, but Greer needed to know if the new servers had somehow triggered this, through faulty code, or perhaps, even sabotage. Adding the new servers was the most recent change they had made to the system, so it was the one most suspicious for the cause. If they backed the new servers off and things improved, they would have the answer. If not, there were bigger problems.

The network was unusable, so each of his staff fanned out to phones to call the sites, one by one, where the new servers were installed. They would have to take them down locally, at the sites. It would take time to reach all the centers and people on-site would balk at Greer's orders until their own superiors had signed off. With no network to reach the other sites, it was all taking too much time for Greer to stay and watch. He left the control room to the techs. He had other priorities to attend to.

Technicians were analyzing the data clogging the network to see if they could identify where it was coming from. Greer had ordered all hands on-deck to help work on the network failure, but it could be hours before there was anything concrete from the techs to confirm what had happened.

As Greer returned to the conference room, he could see the corridors filling with people, rushing to meet with their teams to get to work. An urgency he had never witnessed before in this building was there in their faces. They all knew that this was not a drill – it was the real thing.

Greer silently thought to himself that if taking the new servers off-line didn't work, then they were going to find that someone else was to blame for this: Harold Finch. It was time to find him. It was time to cripple his Machine or take it from him.

Samaritan was going to come out of this as the victor. Greer had given the last ten years of his life to make it so. Humans were expendable. They were weak, and they needed a force to organize them, govern them, push them forward to the new order, where machines would be in charge. Man had had his chance at self-governance and had failed miserably. It was time for Samaritan to exert its potential and take its rightful place, with Greer and his hand-picked people at its side.

Greer opened the door to the conference room, and the four inside were waiting. They looked up to him, ready to hear his assessment and his orders for them.

"The networks are down. Something is forcing too much activity on the networks. Every effort to stop it has failed. Right now, all of the new servers are shutting down until we can find out where this is coming from.

"We have to think of the possibility that this could also be a ploy by Harold Finch to disrupt our systems. We need to find him. I want each of you to move up your schedules. Begin now. I want Harold Finch found. I want his People, and I want his Machine – do not fail me."

 **Manhattan, December 1, 2014**

Out on the streets things were not any less bizarre. Today was overcast, and the temperature was on its way up to 60 degrees, hot for December in New York. It made Leon uneasy. Too many things were going in the wrong direction at one time.

If Harold Finch was truly behind the network failure as Greer had said back there, then maybe they had found a way to beat Samaritan. After what had happened to Reese and Shaw in Queens, perhaps Finch was extracting a little blood of his own. No harm in that, but it could make his own position insecure. He had been betting on Samaritan to come out on top in this, but what if the underdog came through, instead.

He reached into his pocket. A burner phone was there. He could reach out with that to Harold's team, but which one? Reese and Shaw had been in the basement in Queens, and he couldn't count on them being reachable right now. Who knows where they were. He only knew they had been left alive by Ping, Madam Huang, and the Zheng who were already working for Greer.

But then a smile came across his face. Ah, yes. He clicked the phone on, and sent a two-word text to Samantha Groves: _white tea_. She would know who had sent it, and why. Now to make it point in the right direction. He checked his watch, and knew there was enough time to call the tea shop in England, where he ordered a rare white tea for delivery in the U.S.. The address would tell Sam where she and the Team should look for Greer. Leon smiled. He would stay in their good graces, too. After all, Reese had saved his life three times. No use burning bridges he might need for himself. He smiled again, and walked on in the warm overcast day. A stiff breeze was suddenly blowing, and grit from New York's streets lifted, pelting his face and eyes. He turned away and stopped, blinded for the moment.

Nearby, a figure in a black rain coat with a matching wide-brimmed hat faced the display in front of her, as though browsing for shoes. Instead, she held her cellphone to the collar, next to her ear, and spoke.

"Yes, Mr. Greer, I'm certain. White tea."

"Thank you, Kara," he said, and smiled with his face.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: just the cat; worthy adversary**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Rome, Italy, December, 2014**

Rain that had fallen early that day was sitting in puddles, the surface stirred in small wavelets with the wind rising in the afternoon. People were out in the streets, walking, even before the sun had come out from behind the clouds. It was warm in Rome for December.

In the little narrow street that ran next to the courtyard, boys were kicking a weathered soccer ball back and forth. Ali, small and slender, with dark curly hair, ran after a wayward kick that had sent their ball high over his head, and down the street. His sandals slapped on the street, and knobby knees pumped up and down as he ran, so light and fast. He could see the ball bouncing ahead. Just a bit further and he would have it. The wind was playing tricks with it, pushing it further, just beyond him. He started to laugh. It had a mind of its own, and tipped around the opening of a small side street. A meter behind now, he flew around the corner and skidded to a halt. There it was; right there.

He didn't hear the sound, so soft, in the shadow just behind him. A man had watched him come running, and waited as he ran past, eyes on the ball. Now he started to step toward Ali, so small and light. He would be nothing to scoop and hold. Even when he struggled, there would be nothing Ali could do to get away.

Ali leaned forward for the ball. The shadow stepped another step. But then, no further. A jerk backward, from something thin and strong flipped over the head to the neck and yanked in a single motion. No sound. No shadow now, threatening.

The ball was in his hands, and Ali turned around to the street. Dark curls bounced with each step, knobby knees pumped, and he was off. The other boys called his name, and his dark eyes smiled.

Grace looked up as the ball came flying back through the air toward the boys waiting in the street. She watched little Ali. In just a few weeks he had opened like a flower. The music and the art had finally reached him, cracked through that hard shell he had come with, from the over-crowded boat across treacherous water from his homeland in Syria. For so long he had never smiled, barely spoke. Until the lullaby.

When she had played it for the first time, he had climbed into her lap, and rested his curls against her chest above her heart. He could hear the sound of it, beating, as she rocked him in her arms to the sound of it. His eyes were far away, and she could almost see in them another woman's arms around him, and hear her soft voice singing this lullaby to him, his head pressed close to her heart, too. So long ago. Almost like a dream for him.

Now, look at him – running and playing again, like any child should. Safe from harm.

Just behind her, Grace heard a noise, like a metal cover shifting. She turned to see what it could be, and a cat jumped down from the ledge above the cans that held the soccer balls. He liked to sun himself up there, and then would tip himself down from the ledge, landing with such feline grace on the metal cover of one of the cans, soft feet striking all together. Just the cat. That's all it was.

But further on, beyond the cans, in the small alley-way behind the courtyard wall, feet dragged along the cobblestones, behind two men with close-cropped hair, and steely eyes, dragging the stranger behind them. They had tracked him as he wound his way behind the school. He would get no closer to Grace – or the kids.

Reese had sent them to keep watch over Grace and the school. They would stay all day and through the night, watching for more men to come. The strangers were on the move, and there would likely be more. These two who were captured they would bring to a quiet place, deserted, empty, where they could make them talk. Then, they would let Reese know there was action here in Rome. Reese had told them that Grace was a target – now they would find out who had sent them after Grace and why. Whatever it takes, Reese had told them, their blood-brother from the war in Afghanistan. They would not fail him. They would keep Grace safe, and she would never even know that they were there, protecting her - for Reese and his four-eyed friend from New York.

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Kara Stanton was headed for Queens. There was an apartment above the basement of the hair salon where Reese and his latest partner, Shaw, had been held. From the apartment there, she would have access to Samaritan, and she could coordinate Madam Huang and the Zheng for Greer.

All their plans had moved up with the attack on Samaritan's network, and since they couldn't communicate through the network, Greer had sent them out on the streets to handle things personally. She liked his style, Greer. He didn't say much, but he was the kind of man she had always wanted to work for. His top people were hand-picked, loyal, and they didn't panic when things went bad. It was a big organization with lots of moving parts, and Greer depended on his people to keep it together.

She owed Greer her life. His people had rescued her after she was wounded in Ordos, China. Back then, her boss in the CIA had sent Reese and her on a mission to recover a laptop with a cyber-virus on it. But the two of them had walked into a meat grinder, and they realized at the end of the mission that neither one of them was meant to come out alive. Their handler, Mark Snow, had sent them into an ambush.

When Greer learned that she had worked for the CIA, that she spoke fluent Mandarin, and that she was the one who had trained Reese, was partners with him for years, he recruited her for this job. She had no illusions about Greer. As long as she did her job well, and he knew he could depend on her, she would have a place for her unique set of skills – in his organization. And she had no intention of disappointing him.

Besides, Greer had all of the best toys. His computer system he called Samaritan – maybe tongue-in-cheek she guessed, because there was nothing about it that was like a good samaritan. And, that suited her just fine. She wasn't the good samaritan type, either.

His computer had given her access to anything she wanted to know about the people Greer sent her to find. It had phone records, email, financial data, video, anything she wanted. Except for Reese's team. Samaritan was strangely blind to them, and she had had to use her CIA training to find Reese. He was hiding in plain sight, working as a detective downtown in the NYPD. Once she knew that, then she had a way to get to him. The NYPD itself had given her the means. The CCTV inside the building kept video surveillance of the squad room where Reese worked. Samaritan could get to it, and then it was just a matter of watching him on the video feeds. She knew him. She knew what to look for. Reese was a soldier, a black ops mission specialist like her, but he had had his weaknesses, too, when she worked with him back then.

And now that Greer had sent her after Reese, she would use his weaknesses against him. Like the woman, Carter. When the video in the squad room had shown how Reese had looked at her, Kara knew there was something between them. And when she had seen the video of the street scene, when Carter was killed, she knew she could get to Reese. She had made the photograph of the two of them in the squad room together, and left it for Reese to find. Just the first strike in her plan.

Reese was a toy she would enjoy breaking. He was half-broken already. Hardly a challenge for her at all, but there was another one on his team that would be. His partner, Shaw. Kara had seen the two of them together. Shaw was tough. She had taken everything they had done to her in Queens. She had watched the Zheng beat her partner in front of her and didn't flinch. That little assault-for-hire episode had told her everything she needed to know. Shaw would be a worthy adversary. Kara was looking forward to toying with her, too, before a final showdown. And, of course, Reese would need to be there, too, to watch.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: a life worth keeping; a long shot**

* * *

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Reese could hear the water running in the shower down the hall. And then Shaw appeared, dressed and getting ready to leave. They had talked after breakfast, and Reese told her everything he knew about the woman from the Park. He'd told her how the dead woman's fingerprints had matched the name of the woman in the photo on Finch's wall. The fingerprints were hers, but the face was different. At first, they hadn't understood why. So Fusco had gone to the M.E.'s office to dig deeper. The dead woman's face had been changed with plastic surgery and none of them could have recognized her as the woman in the photo. Maybe that's why the Machine hadn't seen her coming for Marco.

"Finch thinks Samaritan sent her as a test," Reese told her. If Shaw hadn't tailed Marco to the Park and seen her hiding in the shadows, she would have killed him and walked away without a trace.

And then there was the attack on the two of them when they were driving back to Manhattan from Glen Cove. The Machine hadn't seen that coming, either. Someone was tracking them; someone had known where they were, and ambushed them, took them to the basement in Queens, and tried to force them to give up Finch. But then they had been left in the basement, beaten, but still alive. Why? What was the message? Maybe it wasn't about Finch at all. Maybe it was more about the two of them. Someone was studying them, testing them, and watching what they did. Like lab mice in a maze. This felt personal to Reese. This wasn't how Samaritan worked.

And Reese knew there was another piece to the story. He hadn't said anything to the others about the Picture. Someone had left the photo of Carter for him to find, under his door at his apartment. Someone had searched old video from the squad room camera, video that went back more than a year ago, when Carter was still alive. Who could have accessed it? Who would have gone through all that footage to find that particular shot of Carter, with him in the background like that? It was someone who could see in his eyes what she had meant to him. Even now, when he thought of her face in the picture, that feeling was there in his chest again. Maybe that was the point. It was a weak spot in his armor, something they could exploit when the time was right. This felt personal, too. Reese could sense someone hovering just out of sight, poking at him, pushing him off-balance, and then watching how he righted himself.

He went through the list of people who could have done it, but came up empty. It didn't feel like Leon Tao. Too subtle for him. And no one on the force at work had taken special notice of him. This was someone who could read him, someone who knew him from the past. He tried to think back, but it wouldn't come to him. Reese would have to watch his step now, change things; they had made a point to deliver the picture to his door. They knew where he lived.

He would have to walk away, and the thought of leaving his place made a slow burn start in his chest. In the past, he could have left without a second thought. But it was harder now. He realized he had put down some roots – this place had a little history. It fit him somehow. The light from the high windows, the tall ceiling in the living room – they reminded him of how it felt in the high mountains back home in Colorado. It was going to be tough to walk away.

He frowned at the thought of it. Little by little, they were encroaching on his life, biting off chunks of it and carting the pieces away. He finally had a life worth keeping, and they were taking it from him. And maybe the same ones after him were going after Shaw now, too.

He watched her check her phone – it was one of the burner phones they kept there for emergencies. And she had taken one of the glocks from the gun safe. She slid it into the holster under her jacket, in back. He could see her wince from the pressure of it against her back, where one of the men in the basement had slashed her across her spine with the wood baton.

Reese knew she was thinking about Marco, and maybe she was too close to him now, letting her feelings get in the way. That was a dangerous place for any of them to be right now. Someone was pulling their strings, and if any one of them faltered, another ambush could be waiting. Shaw shouldn't go alone. He started to get up, to go with her.

"Not happening," she said to him, shaking her head no. It was too risky for him, she said. He was too slow now, still limping from the crack in his bone. And she wasn't going to let him slow her down, either.

Reese remembered how single-minded she had been when he first met her as a POI. She kept giving him the slip back then, pursuing the man she was tracking, relentless, while Reese was trying to protect her. She wouldn't give up then, and she wasn't about to give up now.

"Think about it, Shaw. Someone knows our moves. It's a trap."

"I'm counting on it," she said, and backed away toward the door. Bear was standing between them, and heard the sound in her voice. He dipped his head and went forward to follow her, but she signaled with her hand and said " _Nee! Blijf !_ " Bear stopped in his tracks at her commands.

Reese watched her leave, and then limped quickly back to his room. Bear followed him, alert, waiting for commands, tipping his head to one side when none came. He watched Reese grab another burner phone for himself, and pull another glock from the gun safe, with extra magazines for the gun.

Bear could see that Reese was going to leave and he wanted to go, too. He could sense there was work to do and he didn't want to be left behind. In one mighty shake of his head, the plastic cone slid down off his neck on one side, past his ear, and he reached up with his paw to pry it off. Free. He backed away from it, and pranced a few steps around it, watching it roll on the floor.

Reese heard the sound and saw the cone on the floor, Bear free of it, standing alert now and waiting for him. He couldn't leave Bear here without it. Replacing the cone would be pointless; he'd just find a way to get it off again. And with no one here to watch him, he could gnaw and pull out the stitches and open up his belly wound. Bear would have to come along.

" _Heir_ ," Reese called, and instantly Bear followed him to the front door. His leash was there where Finch had left it by the door, and Reese clipped it on Bear's collar. Then the two went down the empty hallway to the elevator.

Reese was surprised to see the old Mercedes they had stolen from Queens parked at the corner where they had left it. He limped down the street and reached in at the broken side window to open the door. Bear jumped up on the seat and Reese went around to the driver's side. He pushed the seat back as far as it would go and then lowered himself down, lifting his right leg inside with his hands.

Bending his knee like that after limping down the street from the apartment was making the knee swell again, and it was throbbing like a bad toothache. Nothing he could do about it now. He reached under the dash for the wires, and tapped two together to jump-start the car.

 **East 53** **rd** **Street, Manhattan, December, 2014**

Her gun was drawn as she tiptoed up the last few steps to Marco's floor. Wood was splintered on the door frame and the door was open, but she couldn't see inside yet. She moved up next to the door and knelt down on the hinge side next to the wall. As she pushed it wider, she could see just inside. No one was there at the wall inside. Then, as it opened wider, she could look through the hinges to see if anyone was hiding behind the door. Clear, too. The anteroom just inside the front door was empty.

She moved ahead, gun pointed forward, into the library room. The furniture was tossed. His journals and papers were thrown to the floor. His work table was flipped on its side, and his teak turntable was smashed on the floor, pinned under an overturned chair.

Shaw could see blood drops on the wood floor where they had danced together, and a bloody hand-print on the door frame. She moved forward past the frame to the dining room. It was empty. The kitchen was just ahead. Pieces of the Italian crock were scattered like gravel on the floor; on the steel island, they had left a bloody knife. She moved past it, to the bedroom. More blood, on the sheets. For a moment, before she entered the bathroom, she held back. _Don't let him be there. If he wasn't there, he might still be alive._

Reese was at the top of the stairs, with Bear. He could see the shattered door frame, and the open door. He didn't know if Shaw was in there ahead of him, or not. He sighted through, into the library, and could see the overturned furniture. Gun pointed ahead, he limped as quickly as he could with Bear at his side, alerted, ears forward, ready for commands.

" _Volg_ ," he said softly to Bear, to keep him close, on his left side. He saw the blood on the floor, and the bloody hand-print on the frame. Reese picked his way past the debris to the dining room, then forward to the kitchen. As he turned into the bedroom doorway, her glock was in his face.

Shaw shook her head just a trace, and exhaled, lowering her gun, while Reese did the same.

"He's not here," she said, walking past Reese.

"They made a mess of the place, Shaw. They're trying to get to you – "

"I left him alone – this is on me" she said, her dark eyes flashing.

"If they wanted him dead, Shaw, he'd be here. They're using him."

"We don't even know who _they_ are," she shot back, frustration in her eyes. She started past him to the front door.

"Shaw," he said, and she turned back. "we don't know _where,_ either."

"I vote for the fun-house in Queens," she said, turning back toward the door. Reese reached out and grabbed her arm. Her gun was in his face the same instant. He stood up slowly, releasing her arm and raising his open hands, shaking his head. Bear growled, looking back and forth from Shaw to Reese, unsure which one to protect.

"It's suicide, Shaw," he said to her. For a moment her eyes softened, but then she swung around and walked on through the kitchen door.

"Easy," Reese said, reaching for Bear's head, reassuring him. They watched Shaw move through the rooms, past the mess in the library and then disappear.

Reese limped to the front window. A few moments later, Shaw appeared down on the street and looked back to him. She crossed the street and got into the Mercedes, reaching down below the dash. In another moment, it rolled forward down the street. Reese tapped Fusco's number on his phone and waited for him to answer.

"Detective Fusco," he said, and Reese could hear street noise in the background.

"Lionel, I have a job for you."

"Oh, you again. Didn't recognize the number."

"You sound upset, Lionel," Reese said in his too-quiet voice.

"Last time I saw you, you didn't look so good. Or your sidekick, either."

"I'm a little pressed for time, Lionel. I'm at Marco's apartment on East 53rd. Someone got to him. Shaw's going after him, headed for Queens, alone. I need you to meet me here, and fast. If she gets there first, she's walking into a trap."

"I'll be there in five," Fusco said, and clicked off his phone. He wasn't far from Reese, and he swung his car down a side-street to cut over to the East Side, lights flashing blue on his dash. Reese was already down on the sidewalk with Bear when he pulled up.

Fusco watched him let Bear into the rear, and then Reese pushed the front seat all the way back before he lowered himself down and swung his leg in. Reese could barely bend the knee, and Fusco could see the strain on his face from trying. Reese wasn't at his best and Shaw couldn't be much better, either, he thought.

"What's the plan?" he asked Reese, rolling forward with the car.

"Cut her off before she gets there."

"We're going to need help finding her," Fusco said, looking over at Reese.

Reese nodded, remembering the look in her eyes, and her gun in his face when he grabbed her arm in Marco's place. She wouldn't be stopped without a fight. His phone buzzed against his side, and he lifted it to answer, "Reese."

"Mr. Reese, I have new information from the Machine. New numbers came in this morning during the launch in the Warehouse. You and Miss Shaw and Detective Fusco are in danger."

"Finch, can you track Shaw's burn phone? She's headed back to Queens, and we need to stop her." He could hear clicking as Finch worked his keyboard. He said he was checking the burn phones with serial numbers right before and after Reese's. The burn phones in the safe-house all came from a series, and their two phones should be next to each other in the group.

"I have it, Mr. Reese." And a few moments later he said "her location is on its way to your phone." Reese looked at the screen and told Fusco where to head to intercept Shaw. Fusco accelerated through the streets, jouncing over bad pavement, honking at traffic, lights flashing blue on the dash.

"What is happening, Mr. Reese?"

"Someone got to Marco in his apartment. Shaw's on her way to get him back. I'm with Fusco."

"I see. I need to tell you that I reset certain parameters on the Machine last night to give us more warning. Six numbers came up together today. You, Miss Shaw, and Detective Fusco, as I said. And, Marco Bruzzese's number came up for a second time." Fusco and Reese looked at each other.

"And who are the other two, Finch?" Reese asked.

"Leon Tao came up. And the last one I can't explain. She was reported killed in the line of duty some years ago. She was a government employee who died in China during the H5N1 bird flu epidemic." Reese looked up from his phone and heard himself say her name.

"Kara Stanton," Reese and Finch said together.

"You know her, Mr. Reese?"

"Yes, Finch," he said.

Suddenly, things were making sense to Reese. If Kara had survived the missile attack in Ordos, she could have re-surfaced here. She could have her own agenda now, or worse, she could be working for Samaritan.

Kara knew him, and what made him tick. It had to be Kara who had sent the picture of Carter, her calling card for him. And she was the one tracking them. She had the skills. And, she spoke Mandarin, like the thugs who attacked them. Reese felt a chill when he thought of her, alive, and after his team.

"Well, are you gonna tell us?" Fusco said, when Reese had gone silent.

"She was my partner in the CIA. I thought she was dead." Reese looked at Fusco and he could see the questions in Fusco's eyes.

"It wasn't me," Reese said. Fusco shrugged and looked back to the street.

In the warehouse, miles away, Finch sat at his keyboard, with the pictures of the six new numbers displayed. Then the screen went blank before him and a message appeared from the Machine.

 _Recommend programming traffic lights to delay target._

Finch agreed. He told the Machine to adjust the traffic lights ahead of Miss Shaw to slow her down, while it cleared a path for Reese to catch up. For a few lights, it worked. But then, she had figured out their deception and was blowing through the intersections, red lights or not.

 _Target evading. Assets at risk. Probability of loss 90%. Recommend immediate assistance._

Finch thought about the possibilities. Miss Shaw and Mr. Reese might arrive at the hair salon in Queens together. If this was a trap, they could be captured, or worse.

His own attack on Samaritan would make it more urgent to stop him and his Team. Samaritan was crippled for the moment, but its minions would stop at nothing to wrest it from his grip. He had to help his Team. The police were still in turmoil from the discovery of HR. Finch wouldn't know who was left to trust. But he had to act.

It was a long shot, but it might work. He picked up his phone and placed the call...


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: a debt; blue lights flashing; tagged and bagged**

* * *

 **Brooklyn, New York, December, 2014**

Sunlight through a bank of small square windows on the south wall warmed the air. His table sat just beyond the reach of the glare, but close enough to read the small print of the Times spread out on the table near his plate. He had finished his meal, and now lingered over coffee and a few lacy anisette cookies as he browsed the news.

An article caught his attention. Chinese gangs in Queens and Brooklyn had come under scrutiny by the feds gathering evidence of murder, assault, human trafficking, illegal gambling, extortion and other crime. He shook his head. These gangs. Something had to be done about them. Civilized people were afraid to venture out in the evening when gangs moved into their neighborhoods. In the old days, these freelancers weren't tolerated. The old ways were sometimes the best, he thought.

His phone rang nearby, and a man's strong hand reached out to lift it from the table. In a few moments, the phone was offered to him, and he looked up.

"Harold Finch."

"Thank you, Anthony," he said. Elias raised it to his ear, and smiled warmly.

"Harold, my friend. I hope you're calling for a re-match. I miss our chess matches." He listened as Harold told him a story that could have come from the newspaper article he had just read. His smile turned serious.

"Egregious behavior, Harold. Something must be done about these gangs. Did you know that a Task Force is looking for evidence to bring them to trial? If certain evidence were to make its way to this Task Force, I have no doubt that justice would be done. Good for both of us, Harold. I have an idea. I may be able to help you and your friends."

He listened again for a few moments and smiled.

"Let's just say, there is a debt to be paid – and I always pay my debts. I liked Detective Carter very much, and she saved my life. I can't help her now, but perhaps I can help those she cared about. I give you my word, Harold." And with that, he said goodbye, and placed the phone on the table.

"Anthony, we have work to do." His Lieutenant, Scarface, nodded, rising from the table with a smile.

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Harold sat at his keyboard in the Monitoring room at the Warehouse. This might just work. If Elias could get there in time, his men could help his Team avoid disaster in Queens. With Samaritan crippled by waves of data swamping its network, it was powerless to dispatch soldiers, but Harold was well aware of the dangers posed by the humans in its organization. Greer would stop at nothing to take back Samaritan, and Miss Shaw was driving straight into the trap he had set, with Mr. Reese and Detective Fusco chasing after her.

Harold lifted his phone and clicked her phone number. One ring. He suspected that she was unlikely to change her mind. The same gang that had assaulted her and Mr. Reese now likely had Marco Bruzzese in its hands. Two rings.

Harold held the phone to his ear, while he looked into the camera of his laptop. Three rings.

"Where is Miss Shaw located?" he asked the Machine. A map appeared on the screen and a green dot blinked, nearly stationary on the street near the entrance to the Midtown Tunnel. Four rings. No answer.

Harold ended the call, and pulled up the number for Reese.

"Mr. Reese, Miss Shaw will soon be in the Midtown Tunnel."

"Five blocks away," he heard Reese say, and then a silence. Then traffic noise increased, and a door was slamming.

"Mr. Reese?"

"I'm switching to another ride, Finch."

Harold could hear the throaty rumble of an engine, very close, and then shouting. Then the engine revved and accelerated in his ear. He heard the sound of the wind, and he guessed that Reese had commandeered a motorcycle. The sound of the engine peaked and faded as Reese swung the bike side to side, accelerating between cars, cutting through stalled traffic heading for the Tunnel entrance. Shaw was up ahead in the traffic snarl.

Reese could see the large green sign hanging overhead, with the white arrow pointing left to the Midtown Tunnel entrance. Cars were making that left turn, and then funneling down a roadway bordered on both sides with traffic cones. He swung wide right, around the cars waiting to turn, then made the left ahead of them, heading down the ramp to the tunnel. Tall stone walls rose up on either side as the roadway angled down below ground. There was her car up ahead, rolling forward toward the tube. The roadway widened up ahead, to give one last chance to pull over, before plunging down the grade inside the tunnel. Bright orange cones separated this makeshift breakdown lane on the right, between the traffic and the high stone wall.

If he pulled over there, he could reach her car before she disappeared into the tunnel. She was stuck in the long line of traffic, with no place to go. He accelerated along the right side heading for the breakdown lane, and pulled inside the cones. But traffic surged forward at that moment, and Shaw's car drove quickly ahead into the narrowest part of the roadway, just beyond his reach.

If he jumped off the bike now, and she got to the tunnel before he could make it to her car, he would have to backtrack for the bike to catch up. Better to stay on, and make his way through the tunnel behind her.

Reese held steady for a few more moments as traffic rolled by on his left. There was a problem. He would need a helmet on the other side. The toll plaza on the Queens side of the tunnel was a barricade, and if he tried to shoot through on the bike, they would send officers after him. He'd lose Shaw and would have to outrun them before he got to Flushing, where the salon was. Messy, but nothing he could do about it now. He pulled forward with the bike and then out into the lane of traffic on the right.

Two lanes carried traffic through the tunnel side-by-side. A white center stripe between them held tall heavy wands spaced a few feet apart, sticking straight up toward the roof, separating the two lanes for the mile-long stretch. Hitting the wands on the center stripe, at traffic speed, would wreck him or his bike. And there wasn't enough space to fit between them. Once he committed, he would have to stay in his lane.

Shaw was in the tunnel, and Reese was about to go in. The walls and ceiling closed in. And the smell of car exhaust hit him in the face. He could see the angle of the roadway descending ahead of him, diving deep under the East River. He gave the bike a little gas and pulled to the left side of his lane, waiting, and then he shot forward alongside the car ahead of him, passing that one and the next in line. He could see Shaw's car up ahead a few more car-lengths in the line. He didn't know if she had seen him yet, but it wouldn't be long before she knew he was there.

He gave it a little gas again and waited for an opening, then shot forward past another car. Two more and he'd be behind Shaw. He could smell the diesel from her car. The driver ahead had seen him passing the others, and pulled left to block him. Playing chicken. He revved his engine as though he was going to pass, and the driver pulled further left. Reese shot forward on the right, and the driver honked and gestured out his window at Reese. He kept going on the right, but it was tight, and he had to lean hard to avoid stairs and an overhead deck. The bike wobbled for a moment and almost skidded out from under him, but he pushed off with his legs to keep it upright. The maneuver sent shocks down his swollen right knee and now it wouldn't bend enough to keep his foot on the pedal. His right leg dangled down within inches of the hot metal exhaust pipe.

The driver behind him was still on his horn, and now he was sure Shaw had seen him. He pulled toward the left, and he could see her making room for him there. He gave it a little gas to come up next to her window, and she was glaring at him.

"You just won't stop, will you? You'll get us both killed. If you follow me, you're on your own. I'm not waiting for you, Reese." He saw the look in her eyes. Neither one of them would give up.

"Understood," he said and she made a little shake of her head. Then she moved the steering wheel to the left, and the car began to squeeze him toward the wands. He kept his bike pointed straight ahead as her car came closer. She was watching him. He didn't move over. Bright light from the far end of the tunnel was shining in ahead of them. They were close to the end now.

Shaw looked at him one last time, but he wouldn't slow or move over. Her car was close on his right, and then he saw her reaching down, right next to him. With her full weight, she shoved the car door open and slammed it against his knee, and the handlebar, throwing him into the wands on the left.

"Oops," she said, out loud, and she watched him careen through the wands, flinging them back and forth, battering Reese and the bike with their punishing blows.

"That's gonna leave a mark," she said, wincing as she saw the bike go over on its side, and Reese rolling on the pavement, in traffic. Cars lurched to the side to avoid him and each other, lighting up in New York style, a cacophony of honking and cursing.

She could see Reese in the side-view mirror getting slowly to his feet, and lifting the bike upright, swinging his right leg over the torn seat. His windshield was cracked and something metallic was hanging low below the bike. He tried to rev it, and at first it did, but then a gush of fluid drained to the street, and the engine sputtered and quit. He stood there, watching her leave the tunnel.

But then, her brake lights flashed on, and the car stopped. Reese could see legs surrounding her car, and Shaw getting out on the driver's side. He dropped the bike and started to run, reaching for his glock from his holster at his back. He tried to ignore the screaming from his knee, and kept running toward the light.

The legs up ahead were from cops surrounding her car. And they were leading her away from it, while one of them jumped in and drove it away from her, off the roadway, so traffic could pass. Reese could see him reaching for the ignition key, and realizing there was none. She had jump-started the car, and the wires were still hanging down below the dash.

He stuffed the glock inside his belt-line as he ran out the end of the tunnel, toward the men around Shaw. And then he heard someone calling his name. Fusco was behind him, blue lights flashing on his dash. Reese stopped in the middle of the toll plaza, while Fusco drove up on his left. He pulled the door open and dropped down to the seat, leaning back, dragging his right leg into the car.

"Where's Shaw?" Fusco asked him. Reese pointed to the group on the right, surrounding Shaw.

"Elias's men," Fusco said, and Reese looked over at him, questioning.

"Glasses called. He asked Elias to help us take down this gang in Queens. His men are gonna hold onto Shaw for a little while." Reese nodded and sank back in his seat. Fusco could see the torn sleeve and pant leg on the left side, where he had hit the pavement when the motorcycle went over. He had road rash on his left hand, too. But he had managed not to hit his head this time. Small favors.

"Are you okay?" Fusco asked.

"I need a minute," he said, and reached forward with his hands around his knee. Pain threw him back to his seat, and he closed his eyes, breathing hard. Shaw had aimed for his knee with the car door, and if it hadn't been for the handlebar, it would have taken the full force of the hit. He remembered her warning to him in the past. _Don't mess with doctors – they know how to hurt you._

Bear stood up in the back seat, turning his head to one side, whimpering at Reese, then reaching over the seat to rest his muzzle at his neck. He exhaled a soft whimper in his ear.

Fusco rolled forward, angling the car toward the right side of the toll plaza. As they passed the group of cops surrounding Shaw, they saw her look up in their direction as they passed. She looked hopeful for a moment but then frowned as they kept going. Fusco drove on, far to the right, around the barricade, officers at the toll windows waving him by. Once past the tollbooths, he gunned it onto the roadway, blue lights flashing – headed for Flushing.

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Root walked softly into the darkened Monitoring room where Harold was seated. She had checked for messages on her phone, and saw the text "white tea." A message from Leon. His skill in forensic accounting had found the link with Greer and a rare white tea from England. Wherever Greer went, the white tea followed. They had found his location at the ranch in Virginia by hacking the tea merchant's sales records in England. By hacking the records, they had found the shipping address, and so, found Greer. Root sat down across from Harold, who looked up from his laptop.

"Miss Groves?"

"Harry, I have good news. We know where Greer is. Leon sent us a message." She turned her phone to Harold, so he could see the text message for himself. He sat up straighter in his chair.

"We have to get the address from the tea shop."

"Already did, Harry," she beamed. But then she could see the frown on his face, the uncertainty.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Miss Shaw, Mr. Reese and Detective Fusco are – unavailable," he said. He would keep the details of their chase after Miss Shaw to himself for now.

"Then it's up to us, Harry. It's too important. We can't lose this opportunity." She stood up, and started to turn around. Harold was still seated. He looked worried.

"Miss Groves, we've stirred up a hornet's nest by crippling Samaritan, and they'll stop at nothing to punish us."

"Unless we get to Greer first," she said, smiling.

"Leon can't be trusted, Miss Groves. This could be a trap for us," he cautioned.

"Or Greer, tagged and bagged," she said, with that mischievous smile in her eyes.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: iron hands; back on track; look to the left**

* * *

 **Queens, New York, December, 2014**

In the basement of the hair salon in Queens he had a room with a small dirty window, looking out to the back – nothing to see there, but it did let in a bit of light. So different, here, than his home in China. There, the fresh wind blew all day and night, whipping past his shack, waving and bending through open grassland spreading miles in each direction. And it rose unobstructed to the clouds, a dome of high clear air above him. It smelled of grass and charcoal, burning.

Here, shops rose four and five stories high, jammed together feet from streets overflowing with cars, buses, crowds. Yellow signs, red signs, neon too, glared in gaudy profusion on grimy walls dark with soot. And the air here stifled, hung stagnant overhead, compressed him with its smell of city smells.

No matter. With a close of his eyes he could be back there, inhaling the sweet smells of air and waving grass, the feel of incessant wind on his skin once again.

In dim light Ping stepped back from his training wall in the basement. One thousand strikes in one thousand seconds, against a canvas sack of iron pellets. He held out his hands, and inspected them closely. No breaks in the skin, no damage he could see. From all his years of training, first with water, then sand, then coarser sand, pebbles, and then stones – he had transformed his hands. Punching, punching with just the right touch into sand, then stone, then iron had hardened his hands, but left no mark on the skin.

He remembered his teacher, inspecting his hands each day in training. A tear, or a scuff on the skin would stop him from training for one hundred days. The others would forge ahead and leave him behind. And this, he would never allow. Proper training and dedication to the art had given him the gift of iron hands – with each proper training, heavier hands and undamaged skin. The pounding of fist against stone made tiny fractures at the surface, but the nature of bone is to refill each crack with new, harder bone; denser, thicker, day by day, year by year – until these hands were heavy, dense, like iron.

And now, from the jar he had carried here from home, he applied the dark brown elixir, _dit da jow_ , to soothe the skin, nourish bone and body. He smelled its smell on his skin, herbal, aged, complex, and grounding.

So many herbs, from his master's recipe, handed down to him. Ping had traveled far from home to the city to find them. In the shop, walls of old wooden drawers were filled with dried leaves, flowers, roots – herb-scent wafting out to the shop and the street.

In crinkled paper, each herb was measured, then poured in a mound. One after another, added, until the recipe was complete, then all were wrapped carefully for the long trip home. He mixed them with rice wine, soaked them, aged them, year after year underground in a cask near his home. _Jow_ was the second secret to iron hands: proper training with a master, and _jow_ before, during and after. He was steeped in it, inseparable from it, the brown elixir as much a part of him as flesh and blood.

The smell of it on his hands took him back to his home. He breathed it into him, filled himself up with the spirit of this place where ancestors walked, where warriors fought. Its spirit was within him, and he closed his eyes. Dim light from the small window fell across him, illuminating shaved head and round face. And he sat there quietly, ready for battle.

 **Midtown Tunnel, December, 2014**

Shaw shook her head. This one was getting away from her. Already, she had left Marco alone, and he was missing; she had allowed the attack in the car on her partner and herself; and now, she had let Reese get ahead of her with Fusco.

He should have stayed at the safe-house, recovering. She had tried to convince him to sit this one out – he was wounded, slow, unsteady. But he was stubborn, insistent, and reckless. He had followed her to Marco's, tried to stop her from leaving, and then caught her in the Tunnel. If he followed her to Queens he'd just be in the way. And keeping track of Reese would split her attention from the mission. She couldn't take the chance. She had to stop him, save him from himself; and she was running out of time – and tunnel.

The door slam to the bad knee was nearly flawless, except for the handlebar that interfered. But the crash through the wands had disabled the bike and left Reese standing in the tunnel. She could have lived with that. He was stopped.

But then Fusco showed, like Reese's knight in New York armor. They passed her by, and drove off without her, to Flushing. Time to act; time to get this back on track.

She was pacing back and forth. They had put her in an office, waiting. They were dressed like cops, but Shaw knew they couldn't be. Cops would have checked her for weapons, pulled her phone, looked for ID. More like Keystone Cops, these guys. She didn't know who had sent them, but time to go.

"What does a girl need to do to get a cup of coffee around here?" she said softly, out loud to the two cops in the office. The seated one looked up from swiping his phone.

"Hey, get the lady some coffee, and bring one back for me, too," he told the younger one. At first the young one started to complain, but the seated one glared and gestured with his thumb toward the door. They watched him mutter something under his breath and head off for the break room down the hall.

Shaw was watching the seated one lean back in his chair, looking up at her. He thought of something and smiled.

"So, where'd you learn how to hot-wire a car?" Shaw moved in a little closer, smiling his way. She leaned in next to him, as though she wanted to whisper in his ear. He was smiling, anticipating.

With her right hand, out of sight, she reached for a tall oak coat tree near the wall behind them. She wrapped her palm around it as she leaned in further. Then in a whisper, "mom."

He started to laugh and look up, just as she tipped and yanked the oak timber over, cracking down against his head. He fell forward with the blow and hit again, with his face this time, on the desk. Shaw caught the oak coat tree on its bounce, then threw it down hard, smacking his head one more time for good measure. He didn't move, but a groan came out from his face on the desk.

Shaw backed away and left him, the oak timber leaning, resting on his head on the desk. She went to the door, and slid out, heading left through an archway toward the front. Outside, she kept to the right and ran ahead to the end of the building. There was a gravel patch where the old Mercedes sat, parked at the far end. She sprinted to it, and hopped in, reaching for the wires, tapping two together to start the car.

She heard shouts behind her from the office, and men were running her way. She backed out fast, and threw it into Drive, then aimed for the right side of the toll plaza. The officer at the booth looked up to see her coming, and stepped out, raising his hand in the air for her to stop. But he could see her speeding up, and jumped back from the edge when she blew past. In the rear-view mirror, Shaw could see cops from the office running for patrol cars, backing out and cutting hard on the gravel to follow. No lights, no sirens. These weren't real cops, she kept reminding herself.

She pushed harder on the gas, and flew up the road, bouncing on uneven pavement, weaving past cars in her path. It was crowded on the Expressway, but traffic was moving. She could see patrol cars way back, gaining. She stayed in the middle, spotting an 18-wheeler up ahead. She wanted to pass it and pull in front, so the truck could block the view of her from behind. The traffic was crawling in her lane, and she looked back to her left, and squeezed out in the passing lane to speed up. The truck was lumbering two lanes over, and she was gaining. Slowly, gaining. She was pounding on the wheel.

"Come on!"

Traffic rolled ahead. A little space opened on the right, and she squeezed in over there. Just even with the truck now, on her right. A little further and she could pull in ahead of him. Behind her, she could see patrol cars, separated, in each lane, chasing her.

Her bumper cleared the truck, and she looked over her shoulder to judge her space. Up ahead was an exit ramp. She would use the truck to shield her moves. She started right, and the truck driver flashed his lights. She didn't give in. She kept moving to the right and the truck slowed fast, air brakes squealing. He was on his horn, but she ignored him, and pulled all the way in.

The ramp was coming up, and she stayed in her lane, waiting until just the last moment. Then she plunged down the ramp on the shoulder, fishtailing on soft dirt, then accelerating down the ramp. The long truck body passed behind her on the highway, blocking any view of her car on the ramp. Now to thread her way through Queens, to the hair salon in Flushing.

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Root slowed the car and pulled next to the curb. She and Harold got out. They were at the back of the building, and they entered. Five floors up, they walked down the hall to an office. Root tried the door, and it was locked. She smiled. No one there, as the Machine had told them. She reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out a leather pouch. Inside, she selected two slender tools and pushed them into the lock, jiggling their handles as she played with the tumblers. She felt it give, and the door latch opened. She smiled over to Harold, who tipped his head to her, and looked back down the hall. They entered the office and closed the door, softly, making their way in the filtered light to the windows at the front. Root turned toward Harold, and fished in his satchel for the scope. She could peer into windows in the building across the street. The third floor up was a suite. That's where Leon had said to look for Greer.

She poked the scope between gauzy drapes that hung from the high ceiling down to brush the floor. Then she aimed it at the suite across the street, and looked through it. The space looked abandoned, pulled apart. It was a large open floor, wall-less, carpet scraped off. Root frowned. How could that be right? Why would Greer be there? She swung her scope further to the left, and there it was. Tables with large monitors angled to the center, where two people stood conversing. She focused in and turned to Harold.

"It's him. He's there," she said

"With how many others?" Harold asked. She looked back through the scope.

"It looks like just two of them. The rest of the space is empty, like they're renovating. Here, take a look, Harry." She passed the scope to him and moved to the side. He stepped to the window and held the scope to his eye.

"Look to the left, and you'll see them," she whispered.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: He was not alone**

* * *

 **Queens, December 2014**

The wind had picked up, and the sky had gone from peeps of sunshine to that milky-white before rain, clouds hanging low overhead. The air was damp and raw, coming in with the clouds from the southwest, over water. On the windshield, sprinkles of rain had started and stopped and the dampness was making his right leg ache. Reese had leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes for a few moments, but he could still hear Fusco talking in the background. The words didn't make it all the way into his head, just the sound of someone speaking. It gave him some time to gather himself for what was to come.

He thought of the ramming of their car the other night, Shaw bloodied in the seat next to him; and the men in the basement with the wood batons, and the Mandarin-speaking man and woman in the shadows. The woman's voice was definitely not Kara Stanton's. He knew her voice, low and quiet. This voice was different, nasal, speaking English like she was born here, and Mandarin, too.

He didn't know the man's voice either, but Reese remembered him giving orders to the four thugs all over Shaw and him. Maybe he'd get to return the favor today. He remembered their faces, and way too much of what they'd done. His right knee was throbbing just thinking about it, and in his chest, the burn for Shaw when he thought of her tied and fierce in their hands. He heard a noise, and then a pause. Then a louder noise, and another pause. It was Fusco calling his name.

"Lionel," he said, with his eyes still closed.

"We're almost there."

He sat upright, and looked around to see where they were. Fusco had driven in on the street behind the hair salon, and back here there were twin five-story buildings behind it. An alley-way next to one of them led to the back and they could just make out a flat patch of old asphalt, overgrown with tufts of grass and weeds. They kept driving, past the buildings and shops, down to the end of the street. It was deserted. Even the parking lots were empty, businesses too quiet for this time of day.

The hair on Reese's neck prickled. His shoulders tensed. It was like the feeling just before he and his men went in after kicking down the door into darkness, searching mud houses where insurgents could be hiding. Room by room, down narrow hallways, up the stairs. They were craning to listen, fingers at the trigger.

He looked around, and slowed his breathing. That was another place, another time.

When he looked back over his shoulder toward the highway, low dark clouds were heading their way, and he could just make out fine streamers of rain falling. They'd be fighting in the rain. He'd have to get to Finch, to see where Elias had sent his men. Much better to work together than to stumble around in the rain.

At the end of the block they turned right, now that they had seen the layout of the street. Reese reached for his phone, but remembered he had the burner phone instead. His own had turned up in the basement when he and Shaw woke up on the floor. Reese had made just one call with it, to Fusco, and then later had crushed it – in case it was bugged or cloned by the Chinese. He rang Finch and it went straight to voicemail. Reese frowned. Finch should be standing by in the Warehouse to help with the Queens operation. Something wasn't right.

A black SUV turned onto their street, at the far end, driving toward them, slowly. Fusco nodded at the car to Reese, who was leaning forward to see the driver through the windshield. He could make out wide shoulders, dark hair. They pulled their weapons, just in case, and watched the car roll toward them. Fusco kept his speed low, too, and he raised his gun to the rim of the steering wheel as the other car approached.

"Scarface," Fusco said, and looked over at Reese.

"Pull up to the driver's side and we'll see what they have to say," Reese said, in that whisper-voice. They pulled bumper-to-bumper first, then rolled forward until their windows aligned. The street was deserted, and there, in the middle, they stared in at each other through the glass. Windows on each car lowered, and Bear stood up in the back seat, alert and watching.

"My men are coming in now," Scarface said to Reese and Fusco.

"We should meet and make a plan," Reese said in his whisper-voice, and Scarface nodded.

"There's an empty lot on the next corner south. An old driving school. We'll meet there in ten minutes," Scarface said.

"And by the way – your partner, the woman, bolted. Got away from my men at the tunnel." He looked from Fusco to Reese, and then turned away, pulling forward while Fusco held steady in the street.

"Well, now that Elias's men are here, the more the merrier," Fusco shrugged, looking to Reese.

Reese tried Finch's number again. No answer. And he didn't have a number for Shaw. She'd left the safe-house without syncing numbers with him. She'd be on her own when she got here.

Fusco rolled forward to the next corner and turned left, south toward the meeting place. An old one-story building sat at the corner: Fong's Driving School, in English and then below it, something in Chinese pictographs. It was empty, deserted, the sign hanging and twisting in the breeze.

The fence had been forced, and the chain at the gate was snapped and hanging, too. They drove forward into the driveway past the gate. The black SUV was already there, and Scarface was just getting out, walking toward a group gathering, out of the threatening rain, under a rusty old metal roof.

Fusco drove the cruiser to an open spot nearby and stopped. He looked over to Reese.

"I have vests in the back."

He walked around to the trunk and opened the lid, while Reese got out on the passenger side, testing his weight on the right knee. It had ballooned up again inside the pant leg and bending it more than a few degrees was not going to happen. And twisting either way with his foot planted shot spikes of pain through the knee, too, like it was ripping apart inside.

Fusco was looking around the trunk lid at him, frowning. He shouldn't be out here like this. Crazy. Stupid stubborn.

"How is it?" he asked, nodding down at the knee.

"It'll work," Reese said, his eyes steady. Fusco wasn't so sure, but could see Reese was putting up a good front. Bear was standing up in the back seat, looking out at the two of them.

"What are you going to do with Bear?"

"Put him to work," Reese said, looking back over his shoulder at Bear, who dipped his head down, seeing Reese turn his way. Reese reached over to the door and let him out.

" _Volg_ ," he said softly, and Bear came up on his left side. The two walked back to the trunk, and Fusco handed Reese a vest. They took off their jackets and shirts, and put the vests on, then adjusted the straps across the back to hold them close to the body. Then, they put shirts and jackets on, over the vests. Bear watched them intently, knowing there was work to do, and ready to do his part. They checked their guns and ammo clips.

When everything was ready, Fusco pulled the lid down and slammed the trunk. They walked out together to the overhang where the others were waiting. Scarface approached them.

"I'll show you the layout inside the building. We've been in there before." Reese pulled a small notebook from his jacket and a pen, then drew the outline of the building. It was shaped like a stick of butter, long and narrow, and two stories high, with a basement level below. It was the end building in a line of five buildings shaped the same way and attached side-by-side.

He drew the small room just inside the front door, and then the hair salon behind it. And beyond that, behind another wall and door, were four rooms, two on each side of a long hallway. At the far end of the hall was another door that led down to the basement.

"We're looking for a man, six-foot, long black hair. He was kidnapped from his apartment, and he may be here. The basement is where they'd have him. Tell your men he's one of ours, and not to hurt him." Reese looked up at Scarface, who had taken it all in.

"Oh, and one more thing," Fusco said. "This is Chinese gang territory. The Zheng control it. They could be anywhere in these buildings."

"We heard. That's why we're here – to put them out of business," Scarface said. Reese showed the diagram again and drew in a few more buildings near the hair salon.

"Station your men here," Reese said, placing X's at points on the perimeter.

"If the gang is spread out in some of these other buildings, we don't want them surprising us. Your men can protect the flanks. I'll need some men to cover the second floor, too. We haven't been up there, so I can't tell you what to expect. Fusco and I will take the basement."

Scarface was nodding his head at each point, and he looked back to count the men who'd arrived. Another group of patrol cars was just entering the lot from the street. The insignia on the cars was from the TBTA, the police unit covering the Midtown Tunnel.

Reese looked up at Fusco and nodded his head in their direction. Scarface was waving them in to join the group. He took the diagram that Reese had drawn and walked back to the group with it.

"Shaw must be around if these guys are just getting here now. Keep your eyes open for her," Reese said to Fusco.

They looked over to the assembled group surrounding Scarface. Thirty men, some in NYPD uniforms, most dressed in civilian clothes, and the rest in TBTA uniforms. These were men loyal to Elias. They had their own mission, as Scarface had said, but if they were here to help take this gang off the streets, all the better. A win-win for both of their groups.

Reese had worked with Scarface before – he had done some things that Reese needed done, things he couldn't do himself as an NYPD detective. Scarface could be too heavy-handed at times, so Reese would have to keep some control. And Reese knew that his loyalty to Elias was unquestioned. Scarface was the kind of man who would give his life for Elias. That was something Reese could understand, and even admire. There would be no issue with Scarface.

When the men were ready, they piled into a few SUV's, and rolled out of the lot to take up their positions. Reese and Fusco rode with Scarface. Their group of eight, plus Bear, would be the one to enter through the front of the salon. They synced phones on the way, and Reese told Scarface that Shaw could show up. She was on a mission to retrieve the kidnapping victim, if they found him here in the building.

"She doesn't know about you and your men," Reese said to Scarface. "She can be – difficult."

"Bull-headed and trigger-happy, you mean," Fusco added. Scarface smiled.

"So I heard. She walked away from an office full of my guys. I'm looking forward to meeting her," he said, with another smile. She was feisty, the kind of woman he'd like to get to know a little better.

Reese thought about it a moment. "She's out of your league, friend. Trust me on that."

The streets were suddenly full of SUV's rolling to the X's on Reese's map. They stopped and doors flung open, uniformed and plain-clothed men jumping out, running to take up positions.

At the front, Scarface's car lurched to a stop, and the men jumped out, Reese holding back to let Bear out of the back, and to let the others run ahead. He'd slow them down if he tried to go in first. Reese slapped his thigh, frustrated with the knee. He wanted to be up front, to be first down the stairs to the basement. But it would be Fusco first, this time.

He moved quickly up the path to the front door, with Bear on his left side. He could see Bear looking forward, left and right, body tensed, watching intently. He loved it as much as Reese did. It was in their blood, the chase, the sense of danger. It made things real. It made them feel alive.

Fusco tried the door, and it was locked. One of Scarface's men, a giant with arms like tree-trunks, stood in front of it and plowed forward with his shoulder. The door was no match, and flung wide open.

The men behind him went in in a line, guns drawn. A shot rang out and then shouts, and more gunfire. Reese went in last with Bear, and he could smell the gunpowder in the air, and see the men separating, moving left to the door at the back of the salon.

On the right, two men were cuffing an Asian man, turning him back to the front door. The giant grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him past Reese to some others at the front, who walked him to a waiting van on the grass.

Reese moved forward through the salon, and the giant passed him again. He was ready to take on the next door, but Fusco twisted the handle and the door opened. Eight guns pointed to the opening, as it swung slowly and stopped. Fusco reached forward with his foot, and pushed it further, so they could see down the hall. It was empty, and Fusco moved forward on the left, while Scarface took the right side. They stopped at the doors on either side, and tried the knobs. Locked.

Scarface turned back to his men and motioned to them to open both doors, while he and Fusco moved ahead to the next ones. Locked, too. Reese moved into the hallway with Bear until he caught up with Fusco and Scarface. Behind them, Elias's men breached the doors on the four rooms. There were round wooden tables in the middle, with chairs around them, set up for card games. The smell of stale cigarette smoke wafted out into the hallway from the rooms. Illegal gambling, hidden behind the salon, out of sight.

Fusco tried the door at the end of the hall that lead to the stairwell down to the basement. This door was open, too, and Fusco pushed it open all the way, while they aimed their guns at the other side. Fusco went first, then Scarface, then Reese and Bear.

Fusco had his flashlight aimed down the stairs, and he moved down, stair-by-stair, toward the bottom, shining his flashlight around in the darkness.

Scarface looked behind the door where they were standing at the top of the stairs, and motioned to Reese to look. There were stairs going up to the second floor there, hidden behind the open door. Reese had never noticed the stairway when they were here before.

He turned back to the waiting men in the hallway and motioned up the stairs. Then, he followed down behind Scarface toward the basement floor.

Fusco was shining his light around the dark room at the bottom. And then he moved forward to the room where he had found Reese and Shaw on the floor. A moment later, Fusco came out, and he looked up at Reese, limping down the last few steps to the basement floor. He shook his head, no, at Reese.

"He's not here. It looks the same as the last time we were here. Nothing's moved."

Fusco looked solemn. The main floor and the basement were empty, except for the one guy who had fired on them when they went through the front door. Where were the rest of them?

"Lionel, there's a stairway to the second floor. It's behind the door at the top of these stairs. Elias's men are checking up there now," Reese said. Fusco nodded and walked forward, passing by Reese on his way to the stairs.

"I'll check it out, too," he said.

Reese and Scarface went forward to see the larger room. The rope was still hanging down from the ceiling, where Reese had been tied. And the table off to the right still had a coil of rope lying on it from Shaw. He stared at it, remembering the men with the wood batons, and the man and woman giving orders from the shadows.

Scarface looked up at Reese's face and could see his expression in the dim lighting. He nodded silently to Reese, and backed away, leaving him to his thoughts. In a few moments, Reese could hear him on the stairs, heading up to the second floor like Fusco.

As the sounds quieted, he looked around again at the room. He closed his eyes for a few moments in the dim light, and a feeling came to him. The room. There was something not right about the room. He could feel the air on his skin, and the smell of its air currents when he breathed.

He was not alone.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33: out in a hurry (rated T)**

* * *

 **Flushing, Queens, December, 2014**

Reese lifted his gun and swung left and right. No one was there. Bear was alert, but quiet, staring into the gloom. He hadn't picked up an intruder, but Reese knew someone was there. Body heat. It was changing the temperature of the room. Just a little bit, but he could feel it on his skin. And the air currents were all wrong. They always layered out in a certain way when no one was there. But he could feel the disturbance in the air, pushing back against him, as he moved toward the stairs.

He was almost there, where the disturbance was coming from. It was silent, except for the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. And then, Bear made a sound, low, growling, looking into the darkness ahead. And then, a whiff of something strange, like grass or something green.

From the darkness, a flash of yellow in the air, and a wooden pole whistled down in an arc at his head. He pulled back in a reflex away from it, and the pole missed his head, but caught his gun hand on the wrist. His right hand shocked, dropped down with the strike, and went numb. He heard the gun clatter to the floor, and Reese jumped back away from the shadow. The pole whistled through the air and Bear ran forward, growling, leaping in the air, but the pole sliced through the darkness. It caught Bear with a heavy thud on the shoulder, throwing him through the air. He landed with a cry on the floor. And then, from the shadow, Reese could see a figure in black, coming his way.

Eyes opened, and a face appeared in the dim light. Round face, shaved head. The sound of the pole whirling overhead.

Reese moved back one more step, and felt the rope hanging down from the ceiling at his back. His left hand reached it, and the yellow pole was whirling faster in the air. He threw the rope up in front of him, and the pole tangled in it. Reese yanked the rope, and the pole halted, but didn't drop. The figure was moving forward with the pole, jiggling it in the rope, loosening its hold, and aiming its point at Reese.

Reese grabbed the free end of the rope and swung it in the air at his side, a low whirring sound singing in the air. The tip of the pole came closer, jabbing toward him, and he watched the figure approach. The pole was tangled, and the figure was jiggling and jabbing the pole toward him, trying to get it free.

There was a glint from the floor as the figure inched forward, struggling, and Reese could see his gun on the floor. He launched the rope at the figure's legs, and felt it wrap around. He pulled hard, and then leaped for the gun. His right hand was useless, still numb, and he reached with his left hand. He turned over, and raised his gun to fire, but the figure was gone.

Reese got up, and went forward in the darkness. He could see a faint light in the wall near the stairs that hadn't been there before. He moved toward it, and saw the outline of a door. He felt around and there was a rope handle hanging there. He pulled it toward him, and a hidden door in the wall opened soundlessly.

In the dim light, he could see a narrow hallway, empty, and at the end, on the left, a faint light through an opening into another space. He walked in, gun held forward in his left hand. Ten steps, and then he leaned against the wall for a moment before he looked quickly around the edge. It was another hallway.

Reese realized that this was a passageway to the basement of the next building. An escape route for anyone in the basement. He held up going any further. He had discovered the tunnel, but to go forward alone, injured like this, with no one else aware, would be reckless.

"Damn," he said. He backed up ten steps, and turned around to the doorway at the end.

When he got there, he limped out toward the stairway, and swung the door closed behind him. He heard a sound, metallic, like a gun chambering. He lifted his gun with his left hand, and limped one step forward. A figure in black stepped out – Shaw, with her gun raised to his chest. They both exhaled, and dropped their guns down.

Shaw spun around and knelt down on the floor. Reese could see Bear on the floor, and Shaw rolled him to his belly, lifting his head in her left hand, then rubbed down his spine with her knuckles, in a quick motion from shoulders to tail. She repeated it for five times, and then Bear stirred on the floor. In a moment, he lifted his head to Shaw, and made a sound, like a moan. She ran her hands over his body, and he whimpered when she touched his left shoulder. She rubbed his head, and he lifted his tail in a wag for her. She rubbed his back and legs, watching his eyes. In a few minutes, he was up on his legs, standing, but favoring his left leg a bit. She turned her attention to Reese.

"Marco wasn't here," he said. She closed her eyes, and he could see the frustration in her face.

He tried to reach back with his left hand to holster his gun, but it was awkward with that hand. Shaw looked at his right hand.

"What's wrong?" she asked, nodding to his hand.

"I ran into a guy with a wooden pole. He almost took my head off, but he got me on the wrist. I can't feel my hand."

"Let me see." She walked closer and pushed his sleeve up as far as the button would allow. She took a look at his wrist and hand, feeling the soft tissues on the thumb side of the wrist. When she pressed on a certain spot, he pulled back in pain. It was like an electric shock. She nodded again.

"He hit a pressure point. I need to reverse it or your hand will be numb for hours." He looked at her, not sure what she was going to do. It hadn't been a good day for trusting each other. She made him sit on the floor, with his good leg bent. Then she took his wrist and turned it palm-up, and she slapped it lightly over the pressure point three times. He grimaced, but didn't pull away. Then she came around to his neck on the right side. She massaged a point at the base of his skull, where the skull met the top of the neck.

He felt sensation returning to his right hand, like a prickly-painful feeling. He shook his hand, and then it started to feel almost normal again. She reached out and grabbed his hands to help him stand.

There were footsteps coming down the stairs, and they looked up to see Fusco. Scarface was a few steps behind.

Reese limped to the wall, and grabbed the rope handle. He pulled it open and Fusco aimed his flashlight down the tunnel.

"What the hell!" he said.

"It goes to another tunnel, over to the next building. That's how they get out in a hurry," Reese said.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: taser; "Don't bother"; "Stay"**

* * *

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

"Harry, I want you to stay here, out of sight. You can watch the suite over there and give me a warning if anything goes wrong," Root said.

"This is a terrible plan, Miss Groves. You need back-up. Suppose there are others waiting for you over there?" Harold was worried. There was little he could do if trouble started, and usually, where Miss Groves went, trouble followed.

"Harry, you're all the back-up I'll need," she said, and she smiled that mischievous smile.

"Your confidence may be mis-placed, Miss Groves," he said, "but I'll watch the suite and let you know if anything seems amiss."

Root smiled again, and turned away to the door. She took one last look back at him, then closed the door behind her.

Harold looked around him in the office. It was so quiet here, except for a phone ringing softly on a desk somewhere, muted behind one of the closed doors. It only rang three times, and then the ringing stopped.

It was so quiet, almost eerie, to be in the office, uninvited, when no one else was present. It was making him a little shaky inside, and his heartbeat was faster and harder in his chest. He would be much happier when this was over, and they could return to the library office.

He realized he should be watching the suite right now for Miss Groves, and he pushed the scope between the panels of the drapes. Across the street he could see the third floor suite. Harold aimed the scope there and then looked through it. On the right was the empty side of the suite, with the walls down, and the carpet pulled up off the floor; and then, off to the left side, he could see two people standing in front of computer consoles, still talking with one another.

He recognized Greer, with his white hair, and Harold could almost see the cold eyes. He had looked into those eyes himself, and that was a memory he wished he could forget.

He could see Miss Groves walking forward to the windows in the front of the lobby. She was inside the building across the street already, and she looked up at him for a moment, while checking her watch on her wrist, as if the light was better there at the window. She seemed so nonchalant, he thought to himself, so confident and unafraid.

Above her, on the third floor, something caught his attention. Harold saw the door open to the suite, and three people walked in. They looked like business people, dressed in suits. One appeared to be showing the other two into the suite, pointing out some feature to the others.

Harold shifted his scope to the other end of the suite, and Greer and his colleague were still talking, oblivious, in front of the consoles as the trio walked further into the suite.

Harold shifted back to the trio, and then he saw them stop for a moment, listening, and then they looked down to the end of the suite where Greer was standing. Harold could see the salesman calling out, with a questioning look on his face.

He swung the scope back to the end and the same two people were having the same conversation in front of the same consoles. He realized what he was seeing. It was a projection, a movie. Greer was not really there at all. Harold picked up his phone and clicked Root's number. It rang, and she picked up.

"Did you miss me, Harry?" she said.

"Get out of there, Miss Groves, immediately! It's a trap!" He watched the elevator doors open, and he could see Miss Groves alone in the elevator on the third floor. She looked across the street at him, and then the doors began to close.

A delivery man in a uniform ran up to the door and put his hand in between, to stop them from closing. He said something to Miss Groves, and she nodded. He stepped inside, and the doors closed.

"Oh, no," Harold said, and he started to talk out loud to himself. He shouldn't have let her go alone. It was foolish of them to do this by themselves. He had let her talk him into this when he knew better. This was all his fault.

He looked back through the scope, and the elevator doors opened on the second floor. He couldn't see anything in the elevator.

Perhaps there was a struggle going on inside, out of sight. He was frantic. What could he do to help her? No one was there, waiting outside for the elevator. No one would come to her aid.

And then, all of a sudden, the delivery man fell out of the elevator, to the floor. Root stuck her head out, looking at Harold across the street, waving something at him in her hand. She smiled at him, as the elevator doors closed.

He put his hand to his chest, and felt a wave of emotion. She was safe! How had she done it? Was that a taser in her hand? Harold shook his head. Miss Groves never ceased to surprise him with her resourcefulness.

He looked into the scope again, looking for her across the street.

 **Flushing, Queens, December, 2014**

Shaw was watching the two of them limping around the basement. This was really taking things too far. She was well aware of the policy in their group that the work comes first, and people were expected to play hurt. But, she couldn't concentrate with these two limping around like that. She kept getting distracted, analyzing their gaits, assessing them for appropriate imaging studies and possible therapies and interventions. It was maddening.

"Look, Reese, I think you and Bear should leave. The rest of us can take care of this. You found the tunnel, and now we just have to do a sweep to pick up any stragglers hiding in the buildings. Piece of cake," she said.

"You trying to get rid of me, Shaw?" he said, frowning. She thought about just saying yes, but thought better of it.

"Think of Bear. Look at him. He's limping pretty badly on that left front leg. What did you say happened to him?"

"The same guy with the wooden pole hit him, in mid-air, when he jumped him to protect me." Reese realized that he hadn't thought about what Bear had done, until just that moment, when Shaw asked him about it. He looked over at Bear, who was standing with his ears down, looking like he needed to find a place to rest. It was just hard concrete floor all around them.

Shaw got up and went over to him. She patted his head, and moved her hands down his neck, gently, then down to his shoulders. He lifted his left foot up off the floor, in pain, when she pressed on the left shoulder. She gently palpated the muscle layer and tried to go deeper to feel the bone, but Bear cried out in pain.

"I can't tell if anything is wrong in there. He's in too much pain for me to get a good exam. I think you should take him back to the Vet, Reese. He needs a once-over, and maybe an x-ray, too." Shaw could see the look in Reese's eyes. He had a hard time dealing with it when there was trouble with kids or animals.

"And you could use some time off that leg," she said, pointing to his knee, and then winced when she remembered that she had made things much worse with her stunt in the tunnel.

Reese looked at Bear, and he nodded to Shaw. She was right. Bear was in pain, and the only way to see what was wrong was to take him to the Vet.

"You can take my car. It's right out front," Scarface told him. He reached into his pocket and then flipped his keys in the air to Reese.

"It's settled. Come on, let me help you guys get up to the car," Shaw said. Reese looked over to Scarface and shrugged.

"See what I mean?" Reese said to Scarface, nodding his head in Shaw's direction. Scarface smiled.

Shaw looked back and forth at the two of them, but held her tongue.

She clipped the leash on Bear, and she told him to heel on the left side, " _volg_ ," as the two of them walked to the stairs. Bear hesitated to climb them, limping back and forth at the bottom. Scarface stood up and walked over. He bent forward and patted Bear on the head.

"I'll carry him up the stairs, if he'll let me," he said, looking at Shaw and then to Reese, who was on his way to the stairs. Scarface scooped Bear up in his arms, careful not to press against the left shoulder. Then he took the leash from Shaw, and went up the stairs.

They could hear his footsteps in the hallway, making his way through the salon, and outside toward the car.

He set Bear down in the small patch of grass at the front and let him walk around for a few minutes while Reese was making his way up the stairs and through the main floor, with Shaw at his side. They walked out together, and Shaw went ahead with the keys to open the SUV.

Scarface lifted Bear up to the back seat, and they watched him settle himself inside. Then, Scarface went over to one of his men, standing nearby, and Reese could see them talking for a few minutes, while he limped forward toward the car.

"Angelo's gonna drive you in. He'll take you wherever you need to go, okay?"

Reese nodded. He was grateful not to have to use his right leg, driving back into the City. The traffic would be heavy this time of day, and he'd be on and off the brake the whole way there.

He headed for the passenger seat, and hoisted himself in while Angelo jumped up into the driver's side. Reese looked back into the back seat, and Bear was on his side, resting.

Reese leaned back after telling Angelo where the Vet's office was located, and he tipped the seat down so he could close his eyes for a few minutes. He lifted his hand to the others, as the SUV backed out. Shaw watched him drive off, and then she turned around to go back in.

Scarface saw his opportunity. He joined her on the walkway, and tried to introduce himself.

"Don't bother,"she said to him, and walked forward into the salon to find Fusco. He stopped on the walkway.

"Feisty," he said, smiling. He liked that about her.

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

The sound of the engine while they were driving had lulled him into a quiet state. He had dozed a few times, but woke with a start each time. He kept looking back at Bear, who looked uncomfortable in the seat. He looked like the jostling was making him hurt.

His eyes and eyebrows were swiveling as he looked around at cars and trucks out the window, at Reese, at Angelo. He was subdued, not his usual alert, active self.

It was the right thing to do, to bring him in for an exam. Reese was so used to making-do, and playing hurt, that he didn't think about it most of the time. That was his training, and that's how he lived. It was automatic.

They pulled up in front of the Vet office in Mid-town. Angelo got out and ran around to open the door for Bear. He lifted him up off the seat, and Bear whimpered. He carried him straight into the office, and by the time Reese got himself inside, Bear was already in the back, behind the counter.

Angelo stopped in front of him in the lobby.

"Do you want me to drive you home?"

Reese shook his head. "I'm good. I'm gonna stay here until I know what's wrong with Bear. Thanks for the lift," he said, and reached over to shake the young man's hand. He nodded, and then went back out to the car, and hopped in.

Reese settled back against the chair in the lobby, and gazed over at the giant fish tank. He watched the fish swim in and out through the rocks and greenery, a colorful living display inside the clear glass walls. It made him feel calm when he watched the fish. It was mesmerizing.

His eyes closed, and he was on the verge of dozing when he heard her voice.

"Mr. Reese," she said. He opened his eyes, and she was standing there in front of him, concern in those blue blue eyes.

"Dr. Gelila," he said and he started to stand up, but she grabbed his arm, and stopped him.

"Don't get up,"she said, with that British accent. She was staring at him, at the healing cuts on his face from the glass; at the clothes, torn on the left sleeve and pant leg; at the cuts and scrapes from the fall off the bike earlier today.

Yes, now that he thought about it, he was quite a sight. She sat down next to him, and he could see all the questions in her eyes.

"What happened to you – both?"she asked. He didn't know how to begin to tell her something that would make any sense.

He looked into her eyes. She had such caring in her eyes. She couldn't help herself. It just came out of her, like breath.

"I'm sorry. It's complicated," he said softly. She tipped her head to one side.

"Is Bear okay?" he asked.

She shook herself out of it and looked at her paperwork in her hands.

"He has a chip fracture of his shoulder bone, and two cracked ribs. No internal injuries that I can see. His abdominal wound from the surgery is intact. Still, he seems to be in a lot of pain, and I'd like to keep him for a few days for pain management and to give him some fluids. He looks a little dry to me." Her eyes were serious, professional, when she flipped into Vet-mode like that, he thought. But he liked it better the other way, when her eyes were full of feeling, like before.

She couldn't stop looking at him, and he felt bad that he had just dropped in on her like this. He wasn't really ready for prime-time, he said to himself.

"Would you like some coffee, Mr. Reese?" He nodded right away.

"Thanks. I could use a cup right now," he said, and he got up to walk her back to the kitchen, behind the counter. She was watching him walk, out of the corner of her eye, he noticed, and he tried to walk as normally as he could, but his knee wasn't cooperating. It was swollen and stiff, and didn't want to bend, so the sounds of his foot strikes on the hard floor were different, left to right. You could hear the difference when he walked, and there was nothing he could do to disguise it.

They walked to the back, and she got down a mug for him, and poured a cup of coffee. He waved off the milk and sugar, and took a sip. So good. He smiled at her, and thanked her again. There was a look in her eyes, like she was trying to decide how to say something or ask him something.

"Look, I'd like to help – if you'll let me. I don't know what – all this – is about," she said as she held her hands out to his appearance.

"You don't need to say anything, if it's some kind of hush-hush thing. I just want to – help," she said. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes were kind, but confused, tentative.

Reese put down the mug on the counter, and reached up to her face with his left hand. With the pad of his thumb, he reached up to her brow and gently smoothed the furrow. And then, he traced across her brow and followed the hollow down to her cheek, softly stroking it with the pad of his thumb on the curve. So soft, the skin under his thumb. And then, he touched the corner of her mouth, and traced the edge of her lower lip.

She leaned into him, and he could feel the warmth of her breath on his thumb. He pulled her closer, touching him, and touched her lips with his. Her eyes closed and he could feel a soft sigh from her. So tender. His heart was beating harder, filling up with emotion.

"Stay," she said, breathy, quiet, as she reached for him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: "Trust me." (rated T for adult themes)**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Colin, Vet Tech at the Mid-town office, had finished his work with Bear in the back, left him in one of the large metal crates with his good right leg wrapped in gauze and a dressing, hiding the catheter that dripped in fluids as Doc Gelila had ordered. They had given him something for pain, too, and now he looked comfortable, resting in the crate.

Colin walked toward the front, and checked the waiting room. Finally empty out there. There was something about this time of day, as the sun was going down, and the city lights began to wink on around them. December meant shorter days, and it seemed even later because of the rain. It had finally started to fall with some strength against the glass at the front. Long wavy streaks of rainwater coursed down the plate glass windows, and he could hear the tapping of the raindrops on the roof overhead.

He walked into the back, behind the counter toward the kitchen. A cup of coffee would be welcome right now. He had a few charts in his hand, and he'd write them up while he sat in the back with his coffee. The kitchen was empty, but something on the counter caught his eye. There was a mug there, with hot coffee still inside. Doc didn't drink coffee in the evening. Kept her awake all night, she'd told him.

Oh well. He poured it into the sink, ran water in the mug and put it away in the dishwasher. Then he made a cup for himself and went back to the table with the charts. Doc must have gone back in her Call Room to get some rest. She'd been pulling a lot of night hours lately, and she looked tired today. He smiled. He liked working with her. Especially the nights. They would make rounds together, and get everyone tucked in. Sometimes, it stayed quiet like that all night.

But, sometimes it could get crazy and it felt like a MASH unit, with all the wounded coming in. That's when he liked working with her the most. When things got crazy, she didn't lose it. They depended on each other, and trusted one another. No matter how bad things got, she didn't lose her sense of humor, or her compassion.

The blue eyes helped. He always enjoyed watching the people when they saw her eyes for the first time. They couldn't stop looking at them, and they didn't hear half of what she'd said, staring into those blue blue eyes.

At the back of the building, tucked into a large corner space, was one of the Call Rooms. Gelila liked this one, because it had a shower and a little kitchenette on one wall. She didn't have to walk back out to the kitchen in the middle of the night to heat up a cup of tea for herself.

* * *

Reese was there with her, at her door.

She leaned against him, pressing him back against it with her body, in the room's low light. It closed behind them, and then she reached up to him, nearly at eye-level with him, her hands pulling his face down to hers. So warm, her skin, her hands on him. Her lips touched his, pressing softly at first, but then with more force - as she felt him responding.

His breathing came louder, faster against her, and feeling the touch of his chest against hers, she pressed harder with her lips, heat rising in her now, too. He heard her sigh a soft sigh as she pressed in, against him.

His heartbeat was in her hands, strong at the edges of her palms against his neck. In her arms, resting on his chest, she could feel the strength in him, held back for now. She slid her hands down from his face to his chest, feeling the heat rising from his skin. Her hands pushed apart, and they slid the jacket off his shoulders, down to the floor behind him.

Then she started to reach for his shirt, but Reese's hands came up and wrapped her hands with his.

She stopped, and looked up to his eyes.

He was hesitating, eyes uncertain.

No, no, not now.

"Trust me," she said out loud. He heard her say it, but held her hands there - pinned against his chest.

His breathing – she heard it louder, faster - like hers, and she could see the feeling building in his eyes. And the hesitation, too.

"Trust me," she whispered, and reached to his neck with her lips, kissing him there, dragging them - dragging them slowly across his skin - to his ear, breathy, whispering again, "trust me."

He shuddered under her hands and there was a sound in his throat, like a soft moan.

His head tipped back, with his eyes closed for a moment, breaths coming loud and long now, chest rising and falling under her hands, his hands strong around hers, holding them against his chest; still hesitating.

His head tipped forward then and down, with his eyes closed, head shaking side to side, like he was fighting something. He was almost there, she sensed. Just a little more and he would tip. Pressing in against him harder, her lips were at his ear, whispering to him, kissing him, her own breath warm against his skin. She could hear and feel his breathing, faster, matching hers, and then, finally, a moment later, his hands gave way – releasing hers. He pulled her closer in against him, his arms around her, pulling her in, almost uncontrolled - kissing her, that moan from his throat, pulling her harder against him.

Her arms wrapped his body, hands holding strong around his back, but then that strain again – he was pulling back away from her hands on his back.

She didn't let him go.

What made him hesitate?

She made her hands slide hard down the curve of his back, and she could feel him arching under her hands, a sudden groan escaping from his throat. And then Gelila felt the top of his holster and the cold metal inside it.

Reese stopped and started to pull away again, but she held him there against her.

She wouldn't let him go.

"Trust me," she said out loud, and looked straight into his eyes with hers again. Clear eyes. Honest eyes. Unafraid of him.

His breathing slowed against her. He kept his eyes on hers, caught in their blue blue spell. They steadied him, soothed him, let him slow himself again.

"Let me," she whispered, breathy, to his eyes.

She saw the furrow at his brow and the lines forming around his eyes.

With the pad of her thumb, she reached up with her hand and smoothed the furrow, like he had done with her in the kitchen, traced across the brow, down the hollow to the cheek, whispering to his eyes, reassuring him.

"It's okay," and slid down to his cheek with her thumb. The cuts from the glass were still healing, and she felt the raised, rough parts under her thumb.

Gelila could see the look in his eyes, watching her, uncertain what she would think: the gun and all the wounds. She smiled to his eyes, understanding now why he'd held back.

He was right. It was complicated.

She recalculated.

Time. The answer to this was time. And honesty, trust.

She pulled back from him a bit, and reached up to the buttons on his shirt, opening them slowly, one by one, her eyes steady on his.

Her hands pulled the shirt up to reach all the buttons, and then the buttons on the cuffs. He didn't pull away this time. He let her slide the shirt off him to the floor. She could see the vest now, below his shirt. Her hands went around him, slowly, and there were the straps that held it close to his body.

She pulled them open, the sound of it loud in the quiet of the room.

When his vest was free, she slid it down to the floor. And then she put her hands on him, on skin.

His breath ignited in her ear then, louder, faster, hands on skin. And such feeling in his eyes.

Moving slowly now, exploring, she kept her eyes on his.

"Let me," she whispered. Her hands moved to his back, exploring - and then a rough spot. A scar. And then another on his skin. There was that look again in his eyes, uncertain, when she found each one.

She stopped - kissed him long and hard, no hesitation.

Reese leaned back against the door, head back, eyes closed, with that sound in his throat, and she reached up with her lips to his neck, kissing him there, dragging her lips across his skin to his ear. "Let me," she whispered.

Then she took his hand, and pulled him with her to her bed. The sound of his steps reminded her. His right knee – he was limping on that side.

She laid him down, gentle with his knee. In the soft light, he reached up for her with his hand on her arm. She could see a mark on his wrist, dark purple in the light. And more, on his ribs. They were long and wide, deep purple on his skin.

And now, it was she who hesitated. She laid down at his side, and brought his wrist to her lips, pressing them to the purple mark there. And then to the marks on his ribs. In the light, she saw the wounds on his left hand, the cuts and scrapes still fresh with dirt and dried blood on the knuckles. And on the left on his thigh, the tear in his suit, with the bloody scrapes on his skin below it. She sat up.

"Come with me," she whispered, and pulled him up beside her. She led him to another doorway, to a room that smelled of soap, and fresh towels. She left the lights off, just the night-light glowing like a candle in the room.

And then, her hands were on him once again, on skin and muscle, then moving slowly down to his belt. Her hands on him like that made him shudder.

She slid his belt to the side and opened it, her eyes steady on his. He didn't pull away.

She stepped to the shower, and reached in. He heard the sound of water spraying in the night-light glow. She lifted the black scrub top with her name embroidered at the shoulder, raising it up over her head, dropping it to the shower-room floor. And then, her clogs, sliding them off her feet. She raised the bottom of her tee, and pulled the drawstring bow. Her scrubs dropped down to the floor, keys jingling in the pocket.

Steam from the shower swirled around them in the room, warm and wet in the air. She heard him sliding his slacks down, the belt buckle jiggling as it dropped. And then, moments later he was there against her, a soft sound from him, his breath coming fast and loud again in her ear.

His hands were on her, strong, her soft cotton tee gathering in his hands, lifting over her head. In the glow, he could see her reflection in the mirror, skin, all skin. She pulled him close in to her, and his hands were on her, sliding hard over the curves of her body. He felt her arch her body in his hands, and heard the low sigh from her. Then his mouth hard on hers, and skin on skin.

With each kiss, their breath came louder and faster, until they had to move.

The shower. Water flowing over skin, slowing, slowing the heat for a moment. She kissed him gently now, tender with him, bringing him down from his fever. She felt him shudder in her arms against her body. She raised his left hand up and let the water spray on the cuts and blood. She reached for the soap, and rubbed it between her palms, then on his wounds, gently; then higher, spreading the soap higher, feeling his skin slide below her hands. Then more soap, and more skin, smooth, under her palms.

He was kissing her again in the mist from the shower, insistent, and she could feel the strength in him, nearly uncontrolled. This time she let it build, the fire, under her hands, skin on skin. His breath came louder, faster, like hers.

The steam swirled around them in the shower, herb-scent in the air. She backed him to the wide bench seat and let him sit, his knee awash in water from the spray. She stepped in front, and took his hands in hers, then wrapped his arms around her waist. She slid her right leg over the top of his left thigh, and let her knee rest on the bench. He held her steady as her left knee went over his right thigh, straddling him on the bench.

She reached to him, pulling his face to hers, the shower spray on her back, and rubbed her cheek against his, then drew back to his mouth, pressing hard against his. That sound was there, again, low like a moan from his throat, and she could feel the shuddering in his body against hers. Her hands were on his ribs, and rolling over muscle, then lower. Her hands were free to roam, while his were wrapped around her waist, to keep her safe from sliding.

* * *

At the front, the rain came down hard on plate glass windows, and overhead the sound of heavy raindrops on the roof. The lights were low in the lobby, fish swimming in and out of rocks and greenery in the tank.

And further on in the back, Colin looked in on the boarders there. Bear was sleeping, comfortable in his bed. He walked through, checking each one, quietly, not to wake them from their rest.

In the hallway, he could hear the soft sound of water running in the Call Room. She was in the shower. He could smell the faint smell of that soap she liked to use, escaping under her door and down the hall. He smiled, and went back to his charts and coffee at the table. Rain tapped softly on the roof. The lights were low, and they glowed warm yellow-white, softly, overhead.

All was quiet here tonight. The rain had kept them all away. He enjoyed the sound of it - on the windows and the roof. One of Nature's melodies, just for him, tonight.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: solace (rated T); safest hiding place (rated T)**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Flushing, Queens, December, 2014**

The smell of the rain outside drifted through open doors upstairs, down the hall and down the stairs, right to where she stood. A little chill from the damp air. Here at the doorway looking in, this was the room where she and Reese were held.

There was the rope hanging down, tangled tonight, like a fight. When Reese was there the other night, it hung down straight. She remembered him trying to catch her eye, hanging from that rope, cutting skin, and then the sound of wood cracking bone. In his eyes, hurt and pain, but no giving in.

And then the table there, on the right, her own rope in a heap.

She remembered the sound of tires ticking over metal in the street, the swerve, a blur from the left and crashing, rolling, rolling, glass breaking, metal straining, head striking. And then the quiet.

Just falling glass.

Voices, doors, hands on her, and blackness.

With every move, ticking sounds, tiny shapes of glass dropping from her hair, bouncing, skidding on the table. Even before her eyes could see, the sounds of ticking on the table, first.

Then voices, foreign voices, and cold water from a bucket on her back. Awake then – but struggling to come up to speed, make sense.

Where was this place?

She'd turned to hear the sound and saw her partner hanging on the ropes.

Defiant, she spoke out loud.

 _Great, Reese, you always bring me to the best places._ Then that first strike, a warning on her legs – a wooden stick, like a Kali stick. He hadn't held back much. The strike was plenty hard.

What made her challenge him like that, again: _Let the fun begin._

And another strike across the legs. Reese tried to make her stop but she wouldn't let him tell her what to do.

She would take it. Whatever they dished out, she would take it.

But then, they went for Reese instead. They bared his skin, and then the stick again – on bare skin, so they could see where they would aim. They were pros at this – more pain with every strike.

These same points – she had learned them years before. From her master, her sifu, her teacher.

This one and only steady rock, when she was young.

He'd guided her, molded her, given her an outlet for the pain of her disorder. When she fit in nowhere else, he gave her room to be herself.

Solace.

Shaw turned away. Enough. There was work to do. But still, that room demanded. There was more for her to face.

They had pulled her down the table, hands and feet bound and tied. The skinny one metered out her rope, while the other pulled her to him. Over fallen glass, he dragged her down the tabletop.

She swallowed hard, remembering what came next.

Reese had seen the look, the smile, and swung his frame; back, then forward on the ropes, lashing with his leg, and downed him like a ragdoll at her feet. But then, the strikes, from all the wood batons, on Reese, and the sound of wood on bone and flesh. Moaning. Silence.

Then heavy breathing from their efforts at their striking. They poked him, hanging, with their wood batons. Nothing.

Then one hurried, to refill his bucket. Water, cold water, tossed on Reese's face and chest. Nothing for a moment. And then a gasp. More poking from their wood batons, and Reese struggling to lift his head.

She could see it in his eyes; he wasn't there yet, all the way. They kept poking, poking, and then she heard him call her name.

"Shaw." The three turned to see her there. In Mandarin, the woman in the shadows gave commands.

Shaw closed her eyes. Reese opened his. The three approached her; one grabbed her hair. Another, the ropes, and the last, her shirt.

"Don't touch her!" Reese blurted, groggy and panting in his pain. One stepped in close, his arms around her, pinning hers. She wriggled free, fighting, broke his hold. Then a head-butt to his face behind her.

She went down to the floor. There was kicking and lashing with batons, while they dragged her to the table. Reese's voice was in the background, hoarse, then softer, and softer, as blackness overtook her.

"Are you okay?" Fusco said at her side. Her eyes opened, and her face was stern.

"Yeah. Fine."

"I found something you should see," he said. And he waited for her to turn around and follow him back to the stairs. She took a last look around at the rope hanging in a tangle, and at the table on the right with the rope in a heap.

"Shaw?"

She turned around and followed him. Near the bottom of the stairs, opposite the wall with the tunnel, Fusco showed her another hidden door. They ducked in, and there, inside, was a small room with a bed, a small window, and on one wall, some equipment mounted.

She had seen that before.

She walked to the wall, with Fusco right behind.

'What is all this?" he asked.

"Training gear for iron palm." She reached to the squares of canvas on the wall. Inside, below the canvas, she could feel the small, hard shapes. And on the table, a jar of brown elixir. She sniffed its herbal smell. _Jow._

"Iron palm? What's that?"

"A kind of training for your hands. You punch into bags filled with harder and harder stuff – sand, pebbles, rocks - until your hands are hardened, like iron."

"How long does _that_ take?" Fusco asked, his head shaking like he couldn't imagine anyone doing it.

"Years," she said. She felt the bags with her hand, and took a punch into one, softly, to try it out.

It brought back memories of her master in class, when she was young. He was tough with her, training her like all the men in class. No coddling. But then, sometimes, he would watch her strikes, or see her practicing her form, and there would be a silent nod to her, so only she could see. And she would know that he was pleased.

"Look at this."

Fusco had left her side, and wandered to a backpack on the floor. Inside the flap, right on top, he pulled a photo from the bag. He turned it up toward Shaw. Reese. It was an 8x10 of Reese.

 **Midtown Manhattan, December, 2014**

His thumb moved slowly on her skin. So warm and soft beneath it.

She'd stretched out long against his body, head against his shoulder, resting.

Mooring him from drifting.

She felt his hands on her and stirred. Kissed his chest, his shoulder, and then raised her head to his. In her blue blue eyes, her look had settled him, soothed him, wrapped him like the comfort in her arms.

He liked the weight of her body next to his. Her chest on his, her belly on his, her thigh on his. She was careful not to press against his knee. So tender with him now. Her lips on his.

Stretched out long against his body, skin to skin.

She kissed his neck, so softly, and her breath was warm against his ear.

She felt his heartbeat at her breast; a slow and steady rhythm tapping there.

So warm against him, like a blanket; soft like summer on his skin.

With every breath, more and more at peace, protected. At last, he was melted to submission.

Her heart, his safest hiding place.


	37. Chapter 37

**Part 5:**

* * *

 **Chapter 37: scrape (rated T); world without oil (rated T); _need u_ (rated T)**

* * *

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Root slid the taser deftly into her shoulder bag, as the elevator rolled down to the first floor. She would slip out the front and cross the street to the office building where Harold was keeping watch. His call had warned her. Something had worried him about the third floor suite where they had spotted Greer. He hadn't said what it was, but she trusted him when he'd said to leave right away.

And the fake delivery man who'd pushed his way into her elevator had paid the price when he tried to attack her. Thanks to Harold, she was ready with the taser. She'd tossed him out like so much trash, on the floor above, when the doors opened.

Once she rejoined Harold, she'd take him back to his office, and they could sit together over tea. There were things to consider. This tip from Leon, to look here for Greer, had gone bust. But she didn't know if Leon had planned it that way, to trap them, or if something else had interfered. She'd have to talk with Harold first, to hear what had spooked him up there.

The elevator jarred a bit at the bottom, finding the right spot to open, and then the doors began to slide to the sides, the half-door on the right scraping hard and loud against its frame. Root looked up at it, and could see the long dull streak on the shiny metal, where the door was rubbing, over and over, each time it opened and each time it closed. The shine was gone on the metal door there and the long scrape reminded her of a scar.

Then the doors stopped, open now – and she started forward to leave. A stampede of footsteps came running, the crowd at the doors rushing in. No place to go. Slammed backwards to the wall, a forearm on her throat, and hands on her arms.

They pulled her forward, hands holding down her arms on both sides. Strong hands, squeezing, pinning them.

The shoulder bag was yanked, and pulled away.

More hands were on her, everywhere, searching. Her gun. The taser. Gone.

She stumbled forward, with a heavy push from behind, and the crowd parted in front of her.

Root looked up to see familiar eyes.

Someone was standing there, outside the doors, on the phone, speaking.

"We've got her, Mr. Greer. No problem." Her voice was flat, unemotional, like her eyes. Then she listened for a moment, nodding, "yes, sir," looking Root's way. She pocketed the phone.

"Groves," she said, without so much as a smile.

Root smiled her mischievous smile – she never thought she had much personality, this one.

"Martine," Root said. And they pushed Root forward from the elevator, toward her.

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Greer ended his call with Martine, smiling, sliding the phone into the breast pocket of his suit. It was hot in here, under the bright white lights overhead.

He had almost forgotten what it was like, the heat from these old incandescent bulbs. The new modern lights in his buildings were cool to touch. They didn't throw heat like these above them. But perhaps the heat would hasten the outcome he wanted.

He slid his jacket off, and draped it over the back of his chair, and then he unbuttoned the cuffs, rolling the white shirtsleeves up to the elbows on both sides.

His face was blank, but his eyes were piercing, like staring at quarry coming near. Apt perhaps.

He knew the feel of that rush – before the pursuit, that old familiar feeling, like the tiger's in the bush, or the shark's in bloody water. Alerted, stealthy, roused by the thought of a desperate chase and the smell of fear and blood. Leaning forward:

"So, let's try this again. We have all night."

In a chair with metal arms, a figure slumped forward, head hanging down to his chest. The shirt was ripped apart, blood spattered all over the front. Above his left eye, an open cut through the dark hairs of his brow – blood trailing down the hollow, down the cheek and then following the curve of his jaw to the shirt collar.

His hair hung down – long, straight, black – long-escaped from the band that held it neatly at the back. His hair hung free, the ends shaking in the air with his pain.

"Doctor Bruzzese, we know everything about you. Everything. The work you published in Italy – it caught the attention of our friends in the Middle East. I'm afraid they don't share your enthusiasm for a world without oil." Greer stepped forward, slowly approaching the man slumped forward in the chair. He could see the muscles straining under the bloody shirt, and the hair shaking a bit more as he spoke. Good. Progress.

"That was a rather clumsy attempt in the Park the other night. Not our people, of course. But not a total loss, either." Greer had reached his chair, speaking slowly, walking slowly, stepping behind him in the chair. Greer could see his body tense. Perhaps he thought more pain was coming his way, more encouragement to speak, from Greer's men standing by.

Greer reached out with his hands and dropped them down on his shoulders from behind. They jerked, and his prisoner groaned, his breath sharp and sudden.

Greer smiled with his face, but the eyes remained cold. He patted the straining shoulders with his hands, smiling again with his face.

"Come, come, Dr. Bruzzese. This can all stop right now. We are both reasonable men. Tell us what we want to know, and you can rest. Perhaps some food?"

Nothing.

The smile disappeared.

"Have it your way, then."

 **Midtown Manhattan, December, 2014**

He was sleeping and she had everything she could do to keep from reaching out again, running her hands over him, softly, slowly – not to wake him, but to reassure him she was there.

No, let him sleep, she told herself. He looked so peaceful now.

The furrow at his brow was gone, and the lines around his eyes had smoothed.

She started to reach out to touch his face again, drawn to him, but stopped herself.

Let him rest. He needed it.

In the dim light, she could see the raised lines on his face, healing cuts from something that must have happened days ago, she thought. And the bruises on his ribs. Maybe that's why he hadn't come for Bear that evening when she was waiting.

She looked at his face again, and found her hand already there, touching the rough spots, softly.

Stop. Let him be.

So hard to do, with him just lying there, so close.

She took a deep breath and decided something. Rolling quietly, she lifted the quilt and slid out on her side. She walked softly back to the shower room, and picked up the clothes off the floor. In the night-light, she could see his slacks were ruined, shredded on the left side at the seam.

And then, something heavy in her hands. The holster, and the gun. She wrapped them in his suit, and then brought them to the upholstered chair near the bed. At the door, his vest, and his shirt. She folded the shirt on the back of the chair, and put the vest on top of the slacks on the seat. The suit jacket was shredded, too, on the sleeve and down near the pocket. The dark rich fabric had shredded in a long dirty strip where the elbow would be. What had happened to make this kind of damage? She folded the jacket and laid it down over the vest on the chair.

His breathing was quiet, even, and slow.

She'd let him sleep for a while and she'd take a quick shower to freshen, then dress and go back out with Colin. It was time to do rounds, and then she'd let Col' get some shut-eye, too, while she kept watch at the front during the night.

"Is it time to go?" he asked, in a soft voice.

"No, it's still early. Why don't you sleep?" she asked, and walked back to her side of the bed.

He reached up with his hand out to her, and she reached out with hers. He pulled her back down to him.

"I couldn't keep my hands off you. Didn't want to wake you. So I was going to go back out front for rounds. You can stay here and sleep 'til I come back."

"Bad idea," he whispered, pulling her closer. "Stay here, with me." His voice was just a whisper, and she could feel his breath on her neck. She smiled, leaning closer.

She slid the quilt down underneath her, and then the sheet, and then swung them over the top of her.

Now, she was next to him in her bed, and she could stretch out full-length on his left side again.

She folded her arm around him and held him, skin to skin.

And he rested his head at her heart. He could hear the steady thump of her heartbeat at his ear.

Her lips were on his hair, then on his brow, marching softly to his mouth.

In his jacket pocket on the chair, a soft vibration, and a light, unnoticed.

On the screen, a message: _need u - H_.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38: "no one saw this coming"; _You are blessed today; "_ they're in trouble"**

* * *

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

"I assure you, Dr. Bruzzese, this will be a very long night for you. If you remain silent, it will go badly for you," Greer said, leaning forward on his chair toward Marco. Still no response from him, his head bent forward, his long dark hair hanging down.

The heat was worse now, and beads of sweat had made trails down his face, over-running the dried blood-trails, and mixing, lifting into red stains and hurrying them along like tiny rivulets along the curves of his face, dripping to his shirt below.

At Greer's command, one of them had swung his head up with a grab of Marco's hair, but he stayed silent, defiant, giving nothing to Greer. But Greer would not be dissuaded, and continued on, as though conversing with him, over coffees.

"Our associates in the Middle East need answers, Dr. Bruzzese. You've reported on the progress of these experiments more than anyone else. You were the first to publish your theory of how this could revolutionize energy production. You have contacts with the primary researchers in Italy. What we need to know, Dr. Bruzzese, is how close they are to a prototype, and where it is being assembled. And the key question, the most important question, is _does this process actually work?_ I'm certain I don't need to tell you that no one, _no one,_ saw this coming."

Marco let him keep talking, but he didn't focus on what he said. It was the same thing every time. They always wanted to know about the prototype; how far along they were, who was building it, and most importantly, did the process really work.

It was a stunning revelation when an Italian nobody, working alone in his garage, made a discovery that would change the course of humanity. For a pittance a year, energy to run the whole house, the factory, the office building. Clean, smokeless, cheap energy that would make coal, oil, and nuclear power obsolete. Practically overnight.

None of them who had worked on it had realized the risk, the personal risk, they would face once the idea had gone public. Some people would stop at nothing to stop it.

Marco could hear doors opening nearby, and then a rush of cool air flowed in from the open door. He shivered with the cool air on his wet, hot skin. He heard the chair leg scrape on the floor, and he could tell that Greer had changed position. He was up attending to the situation at the door. Voices. He heard voices speaking low and clipped, like army-talk, and then Marco lifted his head toward the voices. Two women walked by, on the other side of the glass, a blonde pushing the other, brunette, ahead of her. She stumbled and frowned, lifting her head, then catching his eye. She stared at him, recognition in her eyes, but he didn't know her.

In the hallway, the two women turned right, and Martine pushed Root ahead again. Root's hands were zip-tied at her back.

This was an old building, elegant in its day, with marble floors, and heavy frames around the dark wooden doors, and gold numbers carefully centered on each one.

Their steps echoed in the hallway, and Root scanned it, looking for something near the ceiling. Way down, far away, she found one. They moved forward down the hall. Steps echoing. She wanted to strike up conversation with Martine, to keep her busy, distract her from her plan, but Martine made Sameen look chatty – not much hope of girl-talk here.

Martine shoved her to the right, again, into another hallway. Damn, missed her chance – not close enough to the camera at the ceiling back there in the main hall. But then, she smiled. Right there, on the right, a camera overhead, red light blinking at her. She raised her eyes and mouthed the words slowly to its eye: "Marco is here."

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Harold rummaged through desks, looking for passwords. On each desk, a desktop computer. Plenty of machines. Everywhere. He just needed to get into one for a few minutes. And there, on a desk with a family photo, husband, wife, and three strapping boys – there in the desk drawer, he found a purple card with a cross and the words: _You Are Blessed Today_. Let's hope so, he thought, and turned over the card. _PW Angel_ , written on the back. He pulled the chair out from the desk and sat down, then powered the machine. When it asked for the password, he typed _Angel_ , and clicked Enter.

Processing. Success. He waited for the desktop to appear, then navigated to his browser. In minutes he was staring into the camera of the monitor, waiting. Then, the Machine sent him this message:

 _Operative captured. Video follows..._

Harold watched CCTV footage from the lobby across the street, forwarded by the Machine from a short time ago. He saw the crowd at the elevator doors, and watched them rush Miss Groves as the doors opened. And then he saw a woman, tall, blonde, with her back to the camera in the lobby, and Miss Groves speaking something, then taken prisoner by the group. He hadn't seen Greer anywhere among them. His underlings were there, instead. And then, the blonde turned around with Miss Groves at her side. Martine. Harold recognized Martine.

Then there was footage outside, getting into cars, and driving off. Choppy footage, quick, brief glimpses of the cars on City streets, images culled from cameras along the route and strung together by the Machine for him to see.

Then, fuzzy video of two figures approaching down a long, long hallway. Hard to tell it was them. He could just make out Martine, reaching out and pushing Miss Groves to one side.

And then, big and bold, clear as day, Miss Groves staring straight into the camera, a close-up. And she was saying something right to the camera. He tried to read her lips. Something about Marco.

"Play Miss Groves speaking again, please," Harold said to the camera above the monitor. The video cut out and then restarted with the push. Harold watched her lips... _Marco_...something... _here_. He looked up, thinking for a moment. _Is._

 _Marco is here_. But where?

"Show me the current location of Miss Groves, please."

A street map popped up on the screen with a green dot flashing. Not far. He knew the building. Harold needed help with this. His team was in Queens, looking for Marco, but Marco wasn't there. He was in Manhattan with Miss Groves, captured. But the team was going after the gang, the Zheng, at the hair salon in Queens. Elias had sent his men to help, too, and there could be a gun battle, or worse, going on there right now. Best not to call directly. Reach out with a message, and see what happens. Harold lifted his phone and sent a message to Reese: _need u – H_.

And, in case he could reach her before something terrible happened, he sent a message to Miss Shaw, as well: _found Marco – H._

 **Queens, New York, December, 2014**

"Who is this guy?" Fusco said out loud. Shaw wandered, taking in the clues left behind in the small room. Single bed, one pillow, rumpled cover in the middle, and a sag in the mattress like someone heavy had been sleeping there. Under the bed, there were shoes, shoes like her sifu would wear during practice. And a pair of sneakers, knock-arounds to wear out on the street. She lifted the sneakers and looked more closely at the tops, then turned them over to look at the soles. They looked new on the top, still white around the eyes for the laces, and the fabric mesh was still clean and bright. But the soles were worn, more on the right, though, like the wearer was heavy and walked with a limp.

She walked to the backpack and knelt down beside it. Full of clothes, thin paper tickets with Chinese pictographs on them, empty wrappers from some fast food shops, and a key. And, then, there was the photo of Reese, too, that Fusco had found. This guy had traveled here from out west. The fast food shops weren't ones around here, in New York. The key was not a car key. It was smaller, like a house or apartment key. She turned it over to look for markings.

A soft buzz went off in her pocket at her waist, and Shaw reached for her cellphone there. A message from Harold, and her pulse quickened.

She clicked Harold's number and he answered right away.

"Miss Shaw, I have news from Miss Groves. She has located Marco in a building in Manhattan. He's not in Queens, Miss Shaw." She interrupted.

"We know, Harold. We're here inside the hair salon, and Marco wasn't here. Where is he, Harold?" He told her which building, and then he heard her pause.

"Is he alright?"

"Miss Shaw, they're in trouble. Greer and his people have them."

"We'll be there in twenty minutes, Harold. Where are you?"


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39: "Just in case"; special place inside; "does it look familiar?"**

* * *

 **Queens, New York, December, 2014**

Fusco watched Shaw's face as she listened to Harold on the phone. Then, when she clicked her phone off, he was waiting for her to tell him the news. Her eyes were dark, serious.

"Root found Marco. Greer's got them – in Manhattan." She started to walk away from him and said over her shoulder, "Harold's waiting for us to pick him up. Let's go, and I'll tell you on the way. Where's your car?"

They went up the stairs to the hallway, then to the front of the hair salon. There were men and women in uniforms and rain gear walking around everywhere – in the salon, up on the second floor, out on the lawn. Outside, there was a white van pulled up cross-ways across the grass. Zheng gang members captured during the sweep of the neighboring buildings sat inside the van. They faced each other in two lines, hands zip-tied behind them, heads down, eyes on the floor. Uniformed men stood guard outside.

Armed officers from the NYPD and some people with dark-colored FBI jackets were milling about. There were more people coming out of the hair salon with cardboard boxes wrapped in plastic in the rain. It looked like files and records from some cache inside. Portable lights were glaring overhead, aiming beams onto the front door and stoop.

Fusco and Shaw threaded through the people on the stairs and on the lawn, and saw Scarface out by the street, on the phone. Fusco started to walk toward Scarface, but Shaw cut away and went to the back of the van. Fusco watched her at the back, looking inside at the prisoners.

One by one, she looked at their faces. Punks. Losers. She wanted to find the ones from the basement the other night, with Reese and her. One by one, she stared at each one. No recognition in their eyes, and she didn't find the ones she wanted. She turned away, and Fusco realized he'd been holding his breath. He didn't know what to expect if she'd found one of them. Things could have gotten out of hand in a hurry and he wouldn't have wanted to be the one to step in between Shaw and her prey.

The tunnel in the basement led to the next building and the next and the next, like an underground maze. Once the Zheng went down the tunnel, they could have come up into any one of the buildings nearby, and it was going to take an army of men to comb through each one, interview everyone inside, and cull the ones who didn't belong. Elias had made it happen. The place was crawling with NYPD, FBI, all part of that Task Force working in this neighborhood and the one just like it in Brooklyn, where the Zheng gang ran. Elias wanted to shut them down, and it looked like he was getting his wish. At least, it was a first wave of arrests.

"You okay?" Fusco said as Shaw approached. She barely glanced at him, and walked past, heading for the street.

"Wait up, Shaw," he called, and then he headed over to Scarface, who nodded to Fusco, and ended his call. The two men spoke for a minute, and Shaw saw Fusco reach out his hand to Scarface, and shake it. Then Scarface glanced over her way and smiled. She didn't respond. He turned back to Fusco and they spoke another minute, and then Scarface turned around, looking for one of his men. He whistled through his fingers, and they heard a yell from the far side of the street. The two men waited and a third man ran over, and stopped to talk with Scarface, who gestured down the street.

Shaw was impatient, rain falling. She wanted to get going, but Fusco was stalling. A moment later, there was a black SUV driving down the street toward them, and Scarface opened the door for Fusco. He jumped in and then it rolled forward toward Shaw.

Fusco leaned out the window, and called to her to get in – why walk when they could ride. She glanced back to Scarface, who was watching her, and saluted with his hand to his brow. She nodded a small nod his way, and got in.

The SUV accelerated down the street, and around the corner, zigging among the cars parked on the sides, from NYPD, FBI and their staff combing through the hair salon building.

The driver turned into a parking lot a few blocks away, and Shaw saw Fusco pointing off to the right. At the cruiser, they stopped and the two of them jumped out. Fusco waved to the man behind the wheel and they watched him drive off back to the salon.

Fusco opened the doors with his key fob, but went to the trunk before he got in, and picked up another vest from the back. When he got in on the driver's side, he passed the vest over to Shaw.

"Just in case," he said. He watched her face. She was tough to read. No real expression. She could have been thrilled or homicidal – you couldn't tell by her face.

She slid out of her jacket and unbuttoned her shirt. Fusco looked away, making believe he was watching the road very carefully. She pulled her shirt off, and he was relieved to see some kind of sleeveless thing under the shirt. She caught his expression and smiled to herself.

The vest was big for her, but better than nothing. She adjusted the straps in back and then put her shirt on over the vest. The buttons wouldn't button over it, so she left them open.

Fusco pulled out of the driveway onto the street, and then made his way back to the Expressway, lights flashing on his dash, so he made good time. They even got through the Tunnel in good time, and then they picked their way in the rain cross-town to the building where Harold was waiting. His car was parked on the street where Root had parked it, but Harold would leave it there for now, and ride with his Team.

 **Mid-town Manhattan, December, 2014**

Their voices were soft in the dim light. Gelila was lying stretched out against his left side, chest to chest, belly to belly and thigh to thigh. Her skin was warm on his. Her head was lifted up, resting on her right hand so she could see his face. She was smiling, then leaning down to press her lips against his chest. Her free hand was moving slowly down his neck, across his shoulder, and then onto his chest.

"I can't seem to keep my hands off you, Mr. Reese. You're – magnetic." She laughed softly, smiling with her eyes. He chuckled, and wrapped his hand around hers on his chest. Her fingers were long and thin in his hand, but strong, too. She watched him raise her fingers to his lips and kiss them softly. He shifted his eyes to hers, and he could see that look in her eyes, that look that could melt him all over again. He hated to make it stop, but he had to check in with Harold. He was long past due.

"I have to get up. Don't want to – " and she smiled and reached for him one more time, pressing her lips against his, softly, almost playfully at first, but then harder as she felt him breathe harder under her breast. Just at the last minute, she pulled herself away. Another moment and she wouldn't have been able to, and she could see him breathing fast and deep, too, caught in the same heat she felt.

His eyes opened, dreamy, a soft sound from his throat as he leaned his head back. Then he groaned a little groan, and shook his head. What was she doing to him? He could hear his breath, fast and deep, and the heat was rising on his skin. He had to break the spell, or he'd be there all night and Harold wouldn't get his call.

"Time to get up. I have to check in," he said, and she sat up next to him.

"I'm going to go shower off. I need to make rounds with Col' and let him get a nap." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and padded off to the shower room. She left the lights off in there, and Reese could hear the water pulse on while he made his way to the chair where she had stacked his clothes. He thought about joining her in the shower again, but then they wouldn't get on with their plans.

He reached for his phone, and saw that there was a message for him: _need u – H._

Uh-oh. What was going on? He had tried twice to reach him earlier, but Harold hadn't answered. All kinds of thoughts started to fire off in his head, but he just pushed them out of his mind, and clicked Harold's number.

On the second ring, he heard Harold's voice.

"Mr. Reese, good to hear from you," he said, without a trace of sarcasm. He thought Harold really meant it.

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the Vet, in Mid-town. Bear got hurt and I brought him back here."

"Is he okay?"

"Chip fracture of the shoulder bone, and two cracked ribs," Reese said from memory. "They want to keep him here for a few days. Where are you, Harold?"

"Not far from you, Mr. Reese. I'm waiting for Miss Shaw and Detective Fusco to pick me up. We heard from Miss Groves. She found Marco in a building on the East side, but Greer's people have the two of them, and we're going to head there to rescue them."

More questions jumped to mind, but he'd wait until later for answers. Best to get on the road and meet them. They'd need him to take down Greer if he was there. And Reese had a special place inside for Greer – when he thought of all the death and damage he'd caused them – there was nothing that would keep him from doing what he did best when he found him.

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Greer was up again at the door, and Marco could feel the cool air rush in again and overtake him. Welcome relief from the heat in this stifling room. He heard voices again, and then the door closing. The scrape of the chair leg on the hard floor, and then Greer's voice close by.

"I understand you have quite a large family, Dr. Bruzzese."

Marco's head was down, his long hair hanging. He heard the words, and his breath came faster. He started to raise his head. Greer. His eyes were so cold, but then the smile, as he saw Marco's reaction.

"So much traffic here, in Manhattan. So many accidents every day. It could happen to anyone, Dr. Bruzzese."

Greer turned a screen around to face Marco, and there on the screen, traffic moving on the street, in the rain.

"That car there, straight ahead, does it look familiar?" Greer asked, his voice soft and steady.

Marco looked closer. The car, the plate number. Yes. His little brother.

"A family evening out," Greer said. Marco looked up to Greer's eyes. So cold.

"Such a tragedy," Greer said.


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40: breathless (rated T); _critical situation_ ; a little first aid(rated T); here, for Marco**

* * *

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Marco leaped up, his arms zip-tied to the metal arms of the chair, and bull-rushed Greer. With his head down, he speared Greer in the chest, and the two of them flew backwards, chairs tangling, legs scraping, bodies crashing, and rolling on the floor.

At the sound, two men rushed in from the hallway, and yanked Marco away from Greer, kicking him as he skidded across the floor, on his side, tied to the metal arms of the chair. He tried to protect himself as long as he could, but they kicked and stomped him in his chair until he didn't feel anything anymore.

The men lifted Greer, and then the chair. They lowered him to the seat, but he was breathless, gasping, clutching at his chest.

 **Mid-town Manhattan, December, 2014**

Reese was on the sidewalk in front of the Vet office. Gelila had dressed quickly after her shower, and told him she would go out to the front and take Colin back for rounds with the boarders. Reese could leave through the front whenever he was ready, and no one would know he had been there with her. She could see the lines around his eyes, the furrow in his brow. The phone call had erased all the peace in his eyes. She'd have to start all over.

Fusco was coming to get him, in the cruiser, now that Harold was safely in the car. Reese could see them approaching in the mist. The rain had stopped and now it was misty in the cool air. His cellphone buzzed in his jacket pocket, just as the cruiser pulled up. When he got in, Harold and Shaw were looking at their cellphones, too. Three messages at the same time on his Team. That could only mean trouble. On their screens:

 _Critical situation. Immediate response required. Recommend disabling SUV..._

And on their screens, a view of cars on the rainy street, swerving, weaving, seen through a dashboard camera of an SUV. It was closing in, chasing another smaller car. In the headlights, a young girl's face framed by the rear window, terrified, in the back seat of the smaller car. A small boy, a woman and a dark-haired man lit up in the headlight beam.

"Do it!" Harold yelled to his phone. And a moment later, the SUV slowed, and fell back. A hand was pounding on the steering wheel at the edge of the image, and cars were cutting in front of the SUV, motionless now, in the middle of the road. That smaller car, with its young family inside, drove further and further away in the camera shot, and escaped.

"What just happened?" Fusco asked.

"I believe we just saved some lives," Harold said. He looked around him at Shaw, Reese, and Fusco, who were waiting for an explanation.

"I made a few changes to the Machine the other night. It sees more, and it has more autonomy than it did before."

"Root would be thrilled," Shaw said. "Let's move."

 **Manhattan, December, 2014**

Martine was breathing hard and Root was kneeling down on the floor, her hands tied behind her. The gash over her eye had opened up again, and it was trailing blood along the side of her head. Her lip was split, and there was blood in her mouth from the cut. But the worst of it was her ear. Martine had slapped her across the left ear with the flat of her hand, and the sounds she was used to hearing in that ear were muffled now and buzzy.

That's the side the Machine used to talk to her directly. It wasn't normal speech from the Machine – never had been. It was more like the mechanical sound from an implant – indistinct, but still understandable. And she could hear normal sounds, too, on that side, but it had taken her a long time to get used to hearing both, and sometimes too much sound could make her dizzy and she'd lose her balance.

But now, after the slap, the sounds were nearly gone in that ear. She barely heard the door open. A big man was there, looking scared, and he called over to Martine, just as she was pulling her arm back for another strike. She looked annoyed at the interruption, but when she saw the man's face, she stopped and said "what's wrong?"

"Greer's down." Martine looked startled, and then ran past him into the hallway, yelling back to him, "bring her with us."

He crossed to Root, and picked her up to her feet by the collar of her jacket, and then pushed her to the door. The pushing was starting to get to her. She was losing her sense of humor.

He had his hand on her back and kept pushing her forward down the hall, around the corner, and down the main hallway. If she had her taser with her, he wouldn't be pushing her like that. They turned down the hallway, past a little office, back to where she'd seen Marco, behind the glass. When they got there, there were people standing around, silent, with shocked looks on their faces.

Something was up, Root said to herself. That was the room where Marco was, and people were milling around outside it. She tried to crane her neck to see over the crowd, but she couldn't see inside the room. Then, there were people coming out, struggling with a chair, carrying someone out from that room. Root could just see a full head of white hair, and the head rolling back and forth like its owner was unconscious.

Greer was down, the big guy had said, and her sense of humor was starting to come back again.

Martine called commands to the rest of them standing by, and she barely glanced at Root, brushing by, on her way after Greer.

The big dummy next to her looked perplexed. What should he do with her, now that everyone else was leaving?

Root had an idea. Her shoulder-bag. Her gun. Maybe they were close by.

"I have to use the bathroom," she said, looking up at him with her best impression of a damsel in distress. She looked at him with her eyes pleading, and a little tear actually escaped down onto her cheek – or maybe it was blood from the gash – she couldn't tell.

He looked upset, annoyed that he was stuck with her like this, with no instructions. He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her to one side, pushing her ahead of him in the hallway. Ah, at the end of the hall, the overhead sign for the ladies room.

He pushed the door open, and shoved her inside, reaching for the light switch. Light flickered on over the sinks.

Walking forward into one of the stalls, she turned around, pulling the door closed behind her with her toes. It scraped and caught well enough at the latch to stay closed on its own.

Root bent forward at her waist, steadying herself with her head against the stall door. She was standing on her left leg, with her right leg bent so that her thigh was pulled up close against her chest, and then she slipped her hands down behind her, until she could get her right foot inside her arms, and bring her hands in front of her right leg.

Then she put her right foot down on the floor and bent forward like she was touching her toes, and lifted her left foot up until she could slip her hands around to the front of her left foot. Now her hands were in front of her.

Time to get the zip-tie off her. She took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself after the contortions to get her hands in front. And then she thrusted her elbows wide apart, snapping the zip-tie at her wrists. Neat trick, but it hurt like hell to do it.

She rubbed her wrists to get the circulation back.

At the door, the big dummy opened it, and yelled into her, "are you done yet?"

"Almost," she said, reaching behind her to flush, and then she yelled out and let herself fall across the seat, noisy, feet splaying out under the door.

"Help," she cried. She heard the bathroom door open and he started walking toward the stall. She moved her feet where he could see them under the stall door, like she was struggling to help herself get up.

"Jeez, what next?" he was saying, as he approached. She could see his footsteps under the door, and she was waiting until just the right moment, when he was close, leaning in.

Then, she brought her foot up toward her, inside the stall, and at just the right moment, she launched her foot at the stall door, and it flew open, slamming him in the face as he was just leaning forward. She caught it on the rebound and stomped it again, in case the first one missed its target.

There he was, in a heap on the floor, groaning.

Root got up and dusted herself off, then opened the stall door and stepped over the body. She backed herself to the door, in case he started to get up, but he wasn't moving and she took off down the hall.

Just before she got back to where Marco had been, she noticed that small office, with the door ajar. There was a desk and a phone, and there on the floor near the desk was her shoulder-bag.

Root looked inside the office first, to be sure no one was there. And then, she grabbed her bag, and looked inside. The taser was there at the bottom, and her gun. The clip was in place, and it was ready to use if she needed it.

Looking out into the hallway, back toward the ladies room, all was quiet.

Down the other way the hall was empty. She crept out of the office and went around the corner, into the hallway where she had seen Marco and Greer before. Ahead, she could see Marco lying on the floor, still tied to his chair.

Root ran forward into the room. As she got to him, she was thinking of Sameen. She was glad she wasn't here at this moment. It would hurt to see her run to him and kneel down at his side. She would tend to him, and leave her, bleeding, at the side to fend for herself.

Root knelt down next to him. He was on his side, with his arms zip-tied to the metal arms of the chair. His face was a mess, and he had blood all over his shirt, and dark footprints on his body. His color didn't look good. He was pale, and sweaty-looking.

Root could almost hear Shaw's voice in her ear.

"A little first aid wouldn't kill you," she'd said. And Root reached out to check his pulse at his neck. It felt too fast, and weak. She looked around her and saw the monitor on the table, tipped over in the rush to move Greer. Root picked up the screen and smashed it down on the corner of the table, and the black screen cracked into a starburst pattern. She kept smacking it on the corner until pieces started to fall, and then she turned it over.

Root picked out a larger, sharp piece and wiggled it until it came loose in her hand. Then she went back to Marco, and started sawing at the zip-ties, until they were off. She pulled the chair away from him, and then rolled him gently onto his back.

Root could hear footsteps in the hall, and she pulled out her gun from the shoulder-bag. She inched forward at the door, and she could hear voices in her good ear. Familiar voices.

When she looked around the corner, there they were, coming down the hall, looking at the screens on their cellphones and then checking for the numbers on the doors.

Root stood up and called out to them. Shaw got there first, and rounded the corner into the room. She stopped when she saw Root, her face, and the cuts, the split lip, and the blood. She raised her hand up to Root's face.

"You're hurt. Let me see," she said. Root shook her head.

"Check Marco. He's in bad shape, Sameen. Check him first."

She watched Sameen turn away and look at Marco on the floor. She saw her eyes narrow, and that look as she saw him with her doctor's eyes.

 **Memorial Hospital, Mid-town Manhattan, December, 2014**

Light was just coming into his room through the window. It was a cold sky this morning, gray-blue, with banks of low-flying dark gray clouds like geese in formation in the sky. It was windy, and she could hear the rattle of the glass when the wind came around the corner. There was a whistle with the harder gusts.

Marco was lying on his back, with the ventilator tube in his mouth, the misty condensation on the tube above the tie-downs. The IV pole was loaded down with bags, large and small, and their tubing ran to blue blinking hubs that metered out the fluids. Another bag of blood was hanging there, too, and it was nearly finished.

Shaw was seated on a chair pulled up next to his bed, stretched forward with her head on his bed. Her hands were wrapped around his hand, so cool as it rested on the sheets. They had almost lost him twice. Once on the way to the hospital, in the ambulance, and once on the table in the O.R. All the kicking and stomping had ruptured his spleen, and they had rushed him to surgery with his blood pressure low and blood going in as fast as they could give it.

The surgeons had taken his fractured spleen, and then went around tying off bleeders, and cleaning up. They ran his intestine to be sure the stomping hadn't torn through. His ribs over the spleen had broken with the stomping, and the sharp ends had pierced his spleen. But no fractured ribs over his lungs from the kicking.

He was sedated, and they hadn't risked it yet, to bring him down to radiology to get his head checked. Maybe a CT later today, if he was stable.

Through the door, a man looked into the room, and saw Shaw at Marco's side. He looked at his son, with all the tubes, and the blinking lights, and the tube in his mouth. He was sick in his heart. Who would do such a thing? He was shaking inside, but he steadied himself. The family would be there soon, and he would need to be strong for them.

He pushed the door open, softly, and walked in. She didn't stir. He walked closer, and could see her hands around his son's, on the sheet. At her side, he could see her resting with her head on his bed.

His hand reached out and he placed it gently on her head. So good that she was here, for Marco.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41: ready?; say it first**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

 **Memorial Hospital, Mid-town Manhattan, December, 2014**

Normally, a hand on her, uninvited, would provoke a reflex so fast, she couldn't control it. Muscle memory from her years of training with her master. The hard sudden block with one arm, and a strike with the other – to the face, or the neck, enough to make her point.

But this hand on her was different. A softness, a tenderness that she could feel through her hair. It reminded her of Marco's touch on her. What had his father said in Italian – _forte e gentile –_ strong and gentle. She let it be. Like a feral cat with a loving hand on its head.

* * *

How hard could it be? To let herself have that in her life. A loving hand. His body next to hers each night.

For so long it had escaped her. But now, this man. Something so different about him, so strong and gentle, too.

He had gotten to her, when no one else could. She'd hardened her heart after so much disappointment.

Unreachable. Protected.

What if she just gave in? This once. Let him in.

From the beginning he'd surprised her – not what she'd expected when she'd first seen him.

Long hair, a red bandanna, leather jacket and a motorcycle.

Bad boy, she'd thought, and that had drawn her to him, made her want him.

But then, in his apartment, something different, unexpected. Books and journals, articles in Italian and English on his desk; the vintage turntable, heartfelt music in Italian, French, English; a chef''s kitchen. That beautiful old carved headboard, from Europe, on his bed.

And the family – she could see the love in his eyes for them. All of them. So many of them.

Was there a place for her there, too?

What if she just gave in? This once. Let him in.

What if she didn't run? What if she stayed this time? Faced her ghosts. Sent them packing.

Let him in. Just this once.

Could she take it? Settle in, like one of the crowd. Accept her place, make him proud.

Learn to share with others, show grace and compassion. Listen with her heart.

Or would that restless wind take her, call to her again? Away. On to the next whatever.

Hardened heart.

Safe. Protected.

No compromise required. Free and unencumbered.

But, to belong.

To let him capture her. Take her. A willing prisoner. Teach her of the kind of love she'd never known. Still safe – but in his arms this time. In his heart, protected.

Strong and gentle. _Forte e gentile._

How hard could it be?

She felt his hands in hers, warmer now. Good sign. Things were getting better.

Her eyes opened, and she saw him there. Better. He really looked better.

Still far to go, but maybe past the worst.

Hope. There _was_ hope for them.

And then, that soft hand on her shoulder. Just like Marco's. She'd turned and saw his father.

His hand on her. _Forte e gentile_.

In his eyes, a father's love.

And behind them, the door. Reese was there with coffees for each one.

 **Emergency Room, Memorial Hospital, Manhattan, December, 2014**

"Yeah, the reason your hearing is muffled is that your eardrum is ruptured. What happened, again?"

The young doctor in front of her was staring into her ear with one of those black instruments from the set on the wall. He backed up, and looked down at the instrument, twisting off the little cone-shaped thingy on the end, tossing it into the trash. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, forgetting he had asked her a question, when he saw her injured face.

"There's a laceration here that we should treat. I could do it myself, or we could call plastics – such a beautiful face – I'm sure you'd rather have plastics do it?"

She let him press around the wound with his fingertips, and then he checked the split in her lip, and her teeth behind it. No loose teeth. No chips in the edges. No laceration on the lip inside, from her teeth cutting through. He checked her other ear, and her neck, and listened to her heart and her breathing.

"All good. I'll call plastics. It's gonna be a while 'til they get here, but it'll be worth it. You'll hardly notice the scar. And, it's your face – " he said, smiling her way, then disappearing around the curtain to make his phone call.

Root leaned back on the stretcher. She closed her eyes, and felt the swollen lump over the cut next to her eye. And now her shoulder was aching. The nurse had come in with her shot. She didn't remember when the last time was that she'd gotten a tetanus shot. Good for ten years, she'd said. And then she'd jabbed her in the shoulder, and that was that. But now, it was aching, like the paper had warned.

Quite a night.

She and Harold had gone after Greer in the place that Leon said he'd be. But, instead, Greer's people had been there, and captured her in the elevator. Too many of them to fight off on her own. And then, Martine. That was unpleasant. Martine had had some history with her before. Root had been their guest in the past, but escaped, and Martine hadn't taken it well.

But, thanks to the Machine, who was always watching, she had left a message that Harold had received. He'd sent in the Team, and she had done her own part, too, to get free. But Marco was hurt. It looked bad for him.

Sameen. It was hard to see her like that. It must be so hard to know what she knew, when she looked at each of them: their wounds, and their broken bones, all the damage through the years. Even Bear.

She'd had her hands on Bear after he was hurt, too. She _must_ feel something. Why else would she keep doing it?

Root remembered her in the building, with Marco and her.

She remembered thinking how she was glad Sameen wasn't there, when she found Marco on the floor - how much it would hurt to see her run to him, instead of her. How much it would hurt to see the two of them together. But then, when Sameen had come around the corner, and saw her, saw her face – the cuts, and the blood. Sameen had reached up to her face, almost tender, with that look in her eyes. Like she cared.

* * *

Would she? Could she care? Was there half a chance?

For so long, no one to share her life, her dreams. Root had felt so empty - for far too long. No one in her life, in her arms.

Could Sameen be the one?

Would she bend? Let her in? Let her take her in her arms? Let her prove what she felt?

But so hard to read her. So hard to know. Would she let her?

Root thought: she needed to know, needed to hear her say it, say it first.

There'd be fire, fire in her heart, if so.

Long nights of love, of heat and light, of softness and tenderness. She just needed her to say it, say it first.


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42: like a club (rated T); it wasn't there**

* * *

 **Memorial Hospital ER, December, 2014**

There was really no pain at all, just a slight pulling sensation when the plastic surgeon was stitching her wound. He had come in, introduced himself and then got to work quickly, numbing the area around the cut with something that burned under her skin until it finally went quiet. He kept touching her skin with a metal instrument and asking if she felt that – and then, she didn't.

The wound had been cleaned already, before the surgeon even got there, and so he just explored the wound and tested the edges of it to see if they came together with any dog-ears or folds or missing pieces. Whatever he didn't like, he trimmed and bothered until he got everything just the way he wanted it; and then he started sewing.

He had placed a blue paper square over her head and face, with a hole at the center where he could access the wound. Root could just catch sight of a bit of the curtain around their gurney through the hole, but not much else.

She could see that he wore a set of long narrow glasses like tiny telescopes mounted on wire frames, magnifiers for the delicate work. And his hands moved deftly over her head, lifting and manipulating with a forceps in his left hand, threading the tissue onto the sharp needle in his right hand. He stopped after each stitch to see how much tension there was and how the edges had come together, adjusting things until he was happy. Root could hear the tiny ticking of metal against metal with each stitch he placed.

Then he tied off the end and left a small loop of blue suture next to the knot at the end to finish it. Quick work for this smallish laceration.

Harold had been loitering outside the curtain until the surgeon stood and placed his instruments on the metal table. Then Harold waited for him to pull off his gloves. He walked through the small opening in the curtain, and looked up to the surgeon's face, distraught.

"Doctor, I want you to send the bill to me, here, at this address. I'll take care of everything. Poor woman. It was all my fault. Walking my dog, and the leash wrapped around her legs and toppled her over right there in front of me. I feel terrible – all my fault. Will she be alright soon?" Harold was prattling on and the surgeon was watching him, silently, and then he accepted the business card, glancing at the name, and the building address.

"Mr. – Wren? She'll be fine. I'll give her instructions to come see me one more time. I'm sure it was just an unfortunate accident. It could happen to anyone," he said with that soothing sound in his voice. Harold backed away, and looked down at Root.

"So sorry, my dear. Let me get you a cab when you're ready. I'll be waiting outside in the lobby. Thank you, Doctor, thank you very much for coming." Harold bowed to the surgeon, and backed out through the curtain, leaving them alone.

"I'll find the nurse, and we'll get a dressing on this before we send you home. I want to see you early next week in the office. I'll leave my card here for you. Don't get up just yet. Let the nurse help you, in case you feel a little lightheaded when you sit up."

He took her hand and shook it gently, and said it had been nice to meet her. Then she could hear his footsteps walking away in the path among the curtained bays of the busy ER.

Root waited, lying on her side, with the blue square over her head. She was fine. There was no problem with sitting up after this little minor surgery – she'd been through far worse and hadn't tossed her cookies, or fainted. But it was nice of him to worry about her. She'd get finished up here, and go meet Harold in the lobby, before heading up to see what was happening with Sameen and Marco.

Harold had been giving her some updates as they came through. He was monitoring Marco through the hospital systems, and the Machine had been sending CCTV footage along to his screen.

Root's own communication system with the Machine was down at the moment. Just static and buzzy sounds in her left ear. The young doctor had told her that her eardrum was ruptured, from Martine's slap to the side of her head.

She couldn't hear much at all from that side. The slap must have done something, too, to the electronics that brought sound from the Machine to her ear. Now it sounded like a seashell held up to that side – a faint sound like soft wind or quiet surf in her ear.

Someone walked by the opening of her curtain, and stopped for a moment, checking a cellphone. Root could just see the figure through the hole in the drape over her face – a tall woman, muscular, with blonde hair. Martine.

Root kept still, watching through the hole in the drape. Martine hadn't seen her. She was staring at her screen on the cellphone.

Carefully, Root let her hand slide across to the edge of the gurney, and over to the chair at her bedside. The stiff leather handles of her shoulder-bag were right there, and she reached over, almost casually, to get it. She pulled it in close to her body, on its side, and lifted the edge of the blue square to look inside the bag. From the corner of her eye she could see Martine looking up from the screen of her phone, down the hallway among the bays. It looked like she was waiting for someone. Not much time to play with. Someone could be coming this way at any time.

Root pulled the taser from the bottom of her bag and swung her legs over the side of the gurney, swinging herself up to sitting in one motion. She kept her face turned away from Martine, who was standing on the other side of the curtain opening. Root let herself down, slowly, to the floor. Then she faced into the curtain, and moved up close to it, out of view of Martine, who was still watching for someone in the hallway.

In her hand, Root had the taser. But as she thought of using it, she changed her mind. She'd need to overpower Martine to get in close enough, and then there would be a scene when she fell to the floor, tased. She moved closer to the opening of the curtain, and took a quick look out toward Martine who could feel eyes on her, and had started to turn toward the curtain.

Their eyes met, and Martine's flew open for a split second, as Root reached out with her left hand, pushing the curtain along with it, wrapping it around Martine's arms as she stepped in close. Root could feel Martine stiffen and start to move back, but Root was quicker, and snapped the taser across her head like a club.

The thud was muffled in the noisy ER sounds, and Martine slumped down into Root's arms, heavy now and heading for the floor.

Root half-dragged her inside the bay, unwinding her from the curtain as she pulled her in, and she dumped her down onto the gurney.

She swung Martine's legs up onto it, and rolled her onto her side. Then she took the blue paper drape and covered Martine's head and face with it. No one would recognize her on the gurney like that. Root grabbed her shoulder-bag, and stashed the taser inside.

She had to find Harold.

If Martine was here, then so was Greer, and maybe others from his Team. She threw her bag over her shoulder and closed the curtain around the gurney, then walked quickly down the hallway toward the lobby, watching for any more of them along the way.

 **Surgical ICU, Memorial Hospital, December, 2014**

Shaw had seen the steady procession of Marco's family head past them in the hallway toward the SICU. Only two were allowed at a bedside, to keep the noise and interruption to a minimum. They were good about it, Marco's family, and they were content to keep vigil in the hallway near the doors to the unit.

Reese was sipping his fourth cup of coffee, but Shaw couldn't stomach any more until she ate something. She'd decided to stay until the last of the sisters had come. There was a delay getting there. She was taking the train into Manhattan from someplace north of here, where she'd been taking classes in something. She would be here soon - and she was the one everyone was worried about.

Magdie, or Dee Dee to the rest of the family, was the youngest of the girls, and the one who was closest to her brother, Marco. She was his constant companion, until he had gone off to Italy while she was in college. He watched over her, teased her, comforted her, taught her how to ride his motorcycle. They were so much alike. Now that he was back from Italy, they liked to cook together, and listen to music, and read books. One would find a book that looked interesting, and then send a copy to the other. The book stacks in Marco's apartment were half Dee Dee's picks.

They were all dreading the look on her face when she saw him like this.

Shaw had found out that Harold was tracking Marco's progress – his CT studies, his labs, and the consults called by the unit doctors. Harold had texted her the results as they came through, and she could anticipate what would happen next, which kept her from breathing down the necks of the surgical residents monitoring Marco's progress. Reese had parked himself next to her, for "emotional support," at which he failed completely - and to keep her from threatening the staff if things weren't done to her standards. It was a delicate interplay of Harold feeding her the updates, and Reese keeping her focus from burning holes in the ICU staff. So far, everyone was still alive.

There was a commotion in the hallway and a dark-haired young woman rushed past into the throng of family at the door. There was Italian and English, voices back and forth, and then the sound of the door opening and closing, then silence as they all watched her go to his bedside. Her father's arm circled around her as they walked to Marco's bed. There were murmurings in Italian at the door as the family tried to guess what Dee Dee would do.

Shaw found herself at the hallway, too, looking in. She could see the young woman's hands come up to her face, covering her mouth. And she could see Marco's father, with his arm around her, hugging her closer. She saw her cross around to his bedside, and call his name out, lifting his hand from the sheet. She was wiping tears away with the back of her hand, calling to him, calling to him, sobbing into her hands. Her father held her against him, wrapping her in his arms, and she sobbed into his shoulder. He stroked her hair and spoke softly to her, kissing her on her head. Shaw saw it all.

In a little while, she had calmed herself, and let her father turn her back to the hallway and their waiting family, still murmuring in Italian at the door, some dabbing at their eyes with tissues.

Shaw just watched.

As the door opened, Dee Dee was swallowed into the arms of the family. More Italian and English. More tissues. Shaw's eyes met Marco Senior's. He looked spent.

They nodded to each other, acknowledging the grueling task ahead of them.

And then, Dee Dee was looking up at Shaw, and saying something in Italian.

"Who's she," she was asking.

"Detective Shaw, the one who was watching Marco," someone answered.

Shaw could understand enough of the Italian to know what was being said. And she could see the look in Dee Dee's eyes, as they narrowed. She walked forward toward Shaw, her body tensing as she moved, and Shaw let her come.

Reese was up off his seat, limping fast, eyes on Shaw's hands.

Marco Senior was moving toward his daughter, concern in his eyes.

"My brother is lying in that bed in there," Dee Dee said, pointing back over her shoulder to the unit.

"You were supposed to keep him safe. Where were you? Where were you!"

She stepped up just inches from Shaw's face, and her arm was raised over her head.

"Magdalena, no," her father said, softly, and then more, in Italian, behind her. The rest of the family stayed quiet, watching. And then Marco Senior was at her side, with his hand on her arm.

Shaw stood silently, her face blank, with Reese at her side.

The arm lowered slowly, and Dee Dee stared into Shaw's face, looking for something, waiting for something.

But it wasn't there.

And just then, in their jacket pockets at their waists, their cellphones buzzed.

Two, at the same time, on their Team.

Trouble.


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43: no Martine; _working..._ (rated T); Not good. (rated T)**

* * *

 **Memorial Hospital, Manhattan, December, 2014**

"I need eyes on this. Now! When will it be back up?" Kara Stanton was on the phone with the techs in Headquarters. The news about Samaritan was still not good. The techs had succeeded in diverting the mass of data records swamping their networks, relieving the strangle-hold briefly. But minutes later, a new onslaught of data swamped them again. Relentless.

Taking down the new servers on the network hadn't helped. They were still drowning in data. It looked like Harold Finch had found a way to stop them. Every time the techs tried something new, it had failed, and Samaritan was dead in the water, unable to hear, or process, or speak to them. Just lights blinking on a console to know that it was still alive in there.

Kara had left Queens earlier, when the black SUVs arrived, at the hair salon. Madam Huang, and their Zheng converts-to-Samaritan had gone along with her; down to the basement, through the escape tunnel, and out to another building, where they could leave unobserved. Kara had been on her way back to Manhattan when she heard about Greer.

She side-tracked to the hospital where his bodyguards had taken him, and then she had had to knock heads with one of them - to set up a proper perimeter around Greer. And most of the staff from the building on the East side, where the assault had happened, had gone back to the main Headquarters, in Mid-town. Greer's bodyguards, and a small elite staff had stayed behind with him, in the hospital.

She was on her way to meet Martine, but the call from the techs had delayed her, and now, she couldn't find Martine. She walked up and down the walkway where she had said she was standing, and no Martine, anywhere.

"Damn it!" She clicked Martine's name on her cellphone, and waited for the sound of her voice, answering.

 **Memorial Hospital, Manhattan, December 2014**

Root had found Harold in the hospital lobby, on his laptop. He'd reunited with it, pulling it from his car while he was waiting for Fusco last night. Now that they knew Martine was here, they had to assume that Greer was here, too, and Harold had begun a search of the hospital census to find him. They wouldn't have listed him under his real name, or even his age or gender, perhaps. Big hospitals like this one had VIP suites available for special guests who required anonymity, but Harold hadn't found anything promising there, with his first sweep.

Perhaps Greer had been more seriously injured. Maybe he was in trouble and needed surgery. None of their team had seen him, except for the brief glance Root had had of the chair being carried out from the room where she found Marco. There was a crowd around her, and she had only caught sight of the white hair as they were carrying the chair out of the room. It had looked to Root like Greer was unconscious. And from the looks on the faces of the staff in the hallway, it could have been something serious.

So, Harold switched his search parameters, and reviewed the cases in the Operating Room for the last eighteen hours. He scrolled through the data, and found Marco listed there for his surgery last night, also under a false name, for security. But nothing else on the OR schedule jumped out as a likely fit for Greer.

So, then to the ER roster. So many cases. This would take a long time to analyze. There must be a better way. And then, he thought of something. He looked up to the camera above the screen on his laptop. He stared at it's eye for a few moments and then he spoke out loud to the camera. Root watched him do it, fascinated.

"Review the camera footage, please, from the Emergency Room entrance cameras for the last eighteen hours. Look for a male, white hair, brought in unconscious, or unable to walk."

Almost too fast to see, the word _working..._ flashed on the screen, and then bits of camera footage rolled past them on the screen, fuzzy, but good enough to watch for Greer.

White-haired victims on stretchers from ambulances, white-haired gents in wheelchairs, and some walking poorly with walkers rolled past them, until they found it: a black SUV at the periphery of the picture, pulling up fast at the ramp outside the ER doors. Beefy men jumped out, and one grabbed a wheelchair just inside the entrance doors, and rolled it out to the back door of the SUV. A white-haired man was lifted by two of the beefy men, from the back seat, then onto the wheelchair and they rolled him quickly in through the ER entrance.

"Stop, please, and restart at the beginning of this segment."

The video stopped, and a moment later, it restarted with the SUV pulling up at the ramp. Harold and Root agreed. There was no question that this was Greer coming in to this Hospital. Harold looked at the time-stamp on the video image, and then cross-referenced to the ER roster, scrolling down to the admission time listed.

As he was looking through the names, the Machine sent him a message on his screen:

 _Target found. Video follows..._

And then, overhead from the Emergency Room CCTV cameras, they could see a crowd of people around a gurney in the Trauma Bay. They were cutting off clothing, checking vitals, giving oxygen, checking an x-ray on a screen. And then a doctor in scrubs and a mask had splashed brown liquid on the man's bare chest, and wiped it down, then again, and again. They could see a large dark mark, an ugly bruise on Greer's chest.

Another doctor donned a gown, and sterile gloves, and others at his side were opening boxes on tables nearby.

He opened a blue drape with a hole in the center and placed it over Greer's chest. Then, a scalpel. He made a cut through the skin, and Greer barely moved. Then he stepped in front of the image, so they couldn't see what he did for a few moments, but then a thick tube was passed to him and they could see him threading it into the cut in the skin.

Harold and Root looked away for a bit after that, not sure they wanted to see what happened next. And then later, they could see the tube attached to a device on the floor, with clear walls front and back, and water inside, with the surface of the water moving like it was boiling. The doctor in scrubs was listening to Greer's chest with a stethoscope, and seemed satisfied.

Harold looked up to the camera above the screen on his monitor and asked the Machine a question.

"Where is the target located at this time?"

It appeared to be a large empty room, with just one patient in it. The lights were subdued, and only one other person was present in the room, a large man, stationed at the door. Below the video, the Machine had displayed a floor plan of the area, with a blinking red light where Greer was located.

Harold reached for his cellphone. "I'm calling Mr. Reese, to inform him," he said to Root, and she pulled out her phone, too, and started to click the number for Sameen.

At the same moment, another cellphone sounded, on the table, in front of Root. She had grabbed it before she left Martine on the gurney in the ER. It was Martine's.

Harold and Root looked at each other, and held up from making their calls. Better do this first. Root reached out to the phone and lifted it up. She swiped the front, and tapped the phone icon. Then she held it up to her ear and answered in a voice like Martine might do, with a sharp "yes?!"

She heard a woman's voice. "Where are you?!" And the voice was loud and obviously irritated.

"Sorry," Root said, and then winced.

Probably, Martine wasn't the sorry type. There was a pause on the line, and then a click. The call went dead.

No use calling right back to the sender. She'd be too smart to pick up. Root looked over to Harold, shrugging, and they both dialed their team members.

In the walkway in the ER bays, Kara Stanton rang the cellphone for one of Greer's bodyguards. He answered right away – good thing, because he was the one she had tangled with earlier. When she got to the hospital, she'd found the security perimeter he'd set up was crap, and she'd told him so.

Then, she'd had to lean on him a little to get him to see things her way. He was a big boy. He'd recover.

"Heads up over there. Martine is missing, and someone may have her cell – watch for bad guys coming after Greer," she said, and clicked her cell off when the man acknowledged.

Just then, she heard a commotion down the hallway, near where she was standing, and she looked back the way she had come. Nurses were standing there, looking into one of the rooms, with the curtain pulled open, and there were loud voices from the room. One of them was one she recognized. Martine.

She turned back to the commotion, and pulled out her weapon. As she approached, the nurses and orderlies stepped back. She stepped in front of the room, and Martine looked up at her, groggy, with a gash on her head.

"So here you are," Kara said to Martine. She held her gun with both hands, aiming it at Martine, who looked up, dazed and confused. Kara turned to the nursing staff in the hallway.

"This is an escaped prisoner from the fifth floor. We've been looking all over for her. Lucky none of you were hurt," she said, and they backed away even more, looking Martine up and down, and agreeing that she looked like she could do major damage with a body like hers. She was intimidating.

Kara walked forward, and stood Martine up from the gurney. She was a little wobbly, but Kara put her hand on her shoulder, and got her moving to the walkway among the curtained rooms.

"Good work,"she called out behind her to the staff in the hallway, and they stood silently, watching the two of them leave.

"Thanks, Officer," one of them called out, and Kara smiled and shook her head. Losers.

 **Memorial Hospital, Manhattan, December, 2014**

When Harold and Root had called them, they were in the midst of a dressing-down by one of Marco's sisters outside the SICU. Reese had jumped up when he saw her coming after Shaw. He didn't know what would happen when she got to Shaw.

But, surprising to him, Shaw had just taken it, everything the young woman had said. Shaw just stood there, motionless. No bloodshed, no weapons pulled. And then their cellphones had gone off, to tell them Martine was in the ER, so Greer must be here, too.

They'd backed away from Marco's family, and left Fusco up there with them, while the two of them hopped onto an elevator down to the ground floor, where the ER was located. Harold had told them where Greer was, and he was doing reconnaissance with the Machine to look for the bodyguards and others who would be there, surrounding him, protecting him. Reese had told Harold to go with Root back up to the SICU, with Fusco, so Harold would be safe while he and Shaw went after Greer.

On another floor, in a small private wing, Martine and Kara Stanton were walking together. Martine was wiping her head with her sleeve, and the blood was mostly dried now. It had left a pool on the gurney under her head in the ER, and the nurse who had come in, thinking she was discharging Root after the plastic surgeon had finished, was shocked to find _her_ there instead.

She'd rushed to the nurse's station for more help, and a throng of staff had responded. The nurse had shaken her, gently, after she checked her pulse and blood pressure, trying to see if she was conscious. And then, Martine was awake, but groggy. She didn't remember what had happened at first, and she was looking around at a bunch of people staring at her through the curtain. And then Kara was there, with a gun. At first she didn't know what was happening, but then she realized Kara was getting the two of them out of there. Otherwise, hospital security would show up, and things would get messy.

Kara had gone ahead of her in the hallway, and she stopped in front of an unmarked door.

She turned to Martine and nodded her head to say she was ready. Then, she shot through the lock, and pushed the door, squatting low as she entered the room, her gun forward, swinging left, then right.

A second later, there was a shot, and then Kara stood up. The security guard was hanging over the arm of his chair, in the midst of standing up when Kara had shot him.

Kara looked around the small room to be sure there was no one else there, and then she grabbed the chair with the guard hanging over, and rolled it over to Martine, dripping blood on the floor as she rolled it. Martine checked his pulse and looked over to Kara, shaking her head, no. Then she slid the chair off to one side, out of the way.

If they had had more time, Kara would have used it to look for the people she knew would be coming for Greer. But, there were more urgent matters to attend to, right now.

She had to take out the eyes of the security system here, so that Harold Finch, if he were here in the hospital somewhere, couldn't use it to find Greer. Or see her plan to save him from an assault by Finch's people.

She was worried about John Reese, of course, but fortunately for her, he was hurt, and not the killer he could be. But the woman, his partner Shaw, was another matter. The two of them together could be enough to neutralize her team, and take out Greer.

Better to run, and fight another day.

She looked at the panel of screens and levers, knobs and ports in front of her. She wished it was as simple as shooting something, but it was going to take some finesse to disable it, so she started reading the little helpful tags glued to the panel. In less than five minutes, it was done. The security system was down. No CCTV, no eyes for Finch or his team to use.

They were on equal footing, now. Samaritan was down, and the Machine was blind.

Reese's cellphone went off in his pocket. It was Harold. He told him the bad news, that the signal from the hospital security system had suddenly gone out, and he couldn't give Reese the latest reconnaissance beyond what he'd said a few minutes ago.

Harold had intercepted a call from ER security to the NYPD a few minutes back. About an escaped prisoner found in the ER and taken away by someone, armed with a gun, someone they thought was an Officer – but that had been a ploy. There was no one in the hospital like that and they had called the police to come to investigate.

The descriptions of the two sounded a lot like Martine and one of the POIs on Finch's wall in the library office - Reese's former CIA partner, Kara Stanton.

Reese heard him say it and closed his eyes for a moment. Not good.


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44: "You, and what army?" (rated T); test out a theory; an agenda; "Do it!" (rated T)**

* * *

 **Memorial Hospital, Manhattan, December, 2014**

Kara Stanton was walking behind the rolling bed frame and IV pole, pushed down the hallway by one of her men, while the rest of them kept watch. They were moving Greer, in case Harold Finch had found out his location and sent a team in after him. That wasn't going to happen. Not on her watch.

She had made some phone calls, pulled strings, and made arrangements for the next leg of their journey, but until everything was pre-positioned for Greer, she didn't want him moved beyond the safety of the hospital. They would just have to make do with the current situation.

At least, she had managed to bring down the security system here in the hospital, so that Finch's computer wouldn't have the advantage. Samaritan was still down, and her team had no means to find or neutralize Finch's team, except with good, old-fashioned brute force. There was nothing elegant or surgical about what was going to happen here today. Her system was in a coma, but at least she had poked the eyes out of _their_ system. Finch's computer was blind here, inside the hospital. For now.

Time was of the essence, and they needed to get Greer out as soon as possible. Once she'd successfully brought down the security system, Kara had turned the monitors, the main panel and the rest of the equipment in the room to shambles. It would delay any attempt to bring it back up, and buy some time for them, but there were no guarantees.

She rode with Greer and his bodyguards up in the elevator to one of the higher floors, and when the doors opened, Kara stepped out first, looking right and left in the hallway. She motioned for them to come out, and then they rolled alongside her down the hall.

They had timed it well. The staff was in the break room, nurses signing out to the next shift coming in, and they rolled him quietly past the nurse's station, to a room at the end of the hall.

There they found an old man, gaunt and sleeping, in the last room on the right. Kara entered the room, and looked around for anyone else there. No one. She went to the old man's bed, and pulled the call bell and his TV tuner off his sheet. Then she unlocked the bed's wheels and moved it forward, away from the wall so she could reach the power cord.

She threw it onto the bed, and motioned to the others to drag the bed out of there; and then they pulled Greer's bed in in its place. Kara personally oversaw the work, to be sure everything was re-attached, re-set, re-powered, just like when it was in the ER overflow room, downstairs. It wouldn't be long until they were able to leave, on the next leg of her plan. 60 minutes, max.

When she was satisfied with Greer's condition, she set up his security perimeter again with the staff she could trust, and then motioned to Martine to follow her. They walked out of Greer's room and around to the double doors at the end of the hallway. On the landing, they had a meeting.

"We need to find Finch, Reese, and his little partner. Samaritan can't help us now. We have to do it the hard way. It might take busting some heads to get what we need. And we only have an hour, maybe less," Kara said. Martine was shaking her head toward Kara, clear on the mission.

"I'm going down to the surgical wing to find out if that engineer Greer was grilling is here in the hospital. I heard from the guards that he was pretty messed up. I want you to start touring every ICU. If he was that screwed up, he'd be down in the ER or in one of the ICUs. Reese and his partner will be protecting him." Kara reached out to Martine with something in her hand.

"By the way, here's another phone. Someone took yours and tried to call me on it. This one's from the security guard up there in the office. Call me on my cell so I can store your number."

On another floor, Reese and Shaw were walking down the hallway in that small, private wing. There were cops from the NYPD walking up and down the hallway, and Reese went ahead, signaling for Shaw to head back and keep watch. He looked for the one in charge, and a gray-haired, heavy-set man walked out of the room, and almost ran into Reese in the hallway. He pulled his phone down from his ear, and looked up, annoyed.

"Detective Riley," Reese said, and the fellow nodded, looking up and down at him, and then he pointed his thumb back to the room.

"Go ahead. I need to take this call."

Reese nodded, and went past him into the room. It was wrecked in there. All the security equipment, the monitors and the control panels were smashed and there was a body, a security guard by the looks of the uniform, in a chair pushed to the side wall. A blood trail lead from the desk in front of the panel where the monitors and other security equipment were mounted. Reese looked around for a few minutes and then went back out to the hallway, heading back to where Shaw was standing.

"Someone took out the guard, and trashed the whole place," he said softly to her.

"There should be another room somewhere like this one, a back-up. They'd have to take out both to bring everything down like this," she said, and Reese nodded.

They were starting to feel frustrated. When they'd gotten to the room near the ER where Greer was supposed to be, they hadn't run into any resistance going in, and they knew it meant that he wasn't there any longer. With all the CCTV cameras down, they had no idea where Greer had been taken. But, when Harold had told them what he and Root had witnessed in the Trauma Bay, Shaw looked up, nodding, to Reese.

"A chest-tube. They were putting in a chest-tube. That won't be easy to hide," she said.

Reese and Shaw headed back to the SICU to re-join the rest of the Team and plan their next moves. Greer was here inside this hospital, somewhere, and they had to find him.

On the Fourth Floor, the Surgical wing of the hospital held the main operating rooms, supply rooms, a few lounges for the surgeons and staff, and a busy office, where surgeries were booked and re-booked all through the day and sometimes, the night. A bad crash or an apartment fire could bring in victims by the dozen. And there were always GSWs, gun-shot wounds, in the middle of the night. Even in this pricey neighborhood of Manhattan, gun violence was ever-present.

The woman behind the desk was used to the pace, and the ill-tempered surgeons who tried to intimidate her with their sarcasm and dirty mouths. She wasn't one who would burst into tears under pressure. She had one of those deep husky voices with the strong _New Yawwk_ accent. Her name was Lorna, but everyone called her Brooklyn, behind her back.

Lorna had big hair, and long blood-red nails that tapped on the desk or the keyboard. No one really knew how she could type with them. And she looked up over her glasses if you stood in front of her at her desk. And she liked to snap her gum as she chewed the life out of it. She was trying to quit smoking, so the gum was her weapon of choice at the moment.

Kara Stanton wandered in. Lorna looked up, briefly, from her keyboard, then back down. She didn't ask. Unless someone stood in front of her, and directly asked her a question, she didn't get involved. People were always wandering in and out of her office, and most of the time, they just looked at her and left. Her fingers were flying over the keys, tapping, tapping, and she was snapping her gum, again and again, like small caliber gun shots.

"Dr. Sieffert sent me over to book one of his cases," Kara said, walking up to Lorna's desk. Lorna didn't bother to stop snapping her gum, but did look up briefly, over her glasses, at Kara.

"Would that be Doug, or Bernie?" she said, tapping on her keyboard.

"Doug," Kara said. Lorna waited for a moment, and then she leaned back in her seat, lifting her glasses up to the top of her head to see Kara better.

"That's int'restin'," she said, folding her arms over her ample bosom, "he's been dead fuh six years, now."

Kara nodded, and smiled. She turned around and took a quick look at the door, then reached over to it, closing it softly behind her.

Lorna was looking at her, unimpressed.

"Here's the thing – " and lifting up her name plate from her desk, "Lorna – I'm gonna need to take a look at the bookings for the last twenty-four hours. And if you aren't in the mood to show me, then I'll have to hurt you," Kara said, smiling.

"You, and what army?" Lorna said, her eyes narrowing, and her arms still folded over her bosom.

The popping noise that came next was hardly noticeable in the busy hallway outside. No one thought it was odd for Brooklyn to have her door closed like that. It was almost a relief not to have to see her there, with the big hair, and the long blood-red fingernails, and the snapping gum. It was so quiet all of a sudden. Nice.

Kara had gone around to Lorna's side of the desk and was scrolling through the OR schedule. She shoved the chair to the side, and leaned over to see the screen a little better. There were multiple windows, one for each OR suite. She backtracked to times in the middle of the night. Less traffic to look at on the screens, and closer to the time when the engineer would have come in. The names didn't matter. They wouldn't have used his real name, anyway.

Hmm. That was interesting. A female, seventy-five years old with a hip fracture, but the column where they recorded the pathology specimens sent off from the case to the lab said "spleen."

Kara wrote down the name, and the location the patient had returned to: the SICU. She picked up her cellphone from the desk, and then clicked the number for the phone she'd given to Martine to use. Martine answered before the second ring.

"Meet me outside the SICU," Kara said, and Martine answered, "on my way."

 **Memorial Hospital Electrical Closet # 33B, Manhattan, December, 2014**

Harold had left the SICU to make a quick trip to one of the closets where the electrical cabling ran for the hospital. He wanted to test out a theory. Even though the security systems were down in the hospital, he thought he could jury-rig a workaround and get the CCTV signal from the hospital out to the Machine, which was always watching and waiting. If he could get the signal out of the hospital, the Machine would use it to find Greer, or any of his Team, and then Harold would get a text on his cellphone from the Machine, telling him where to look.

He was up high, near the top floor of the high rise. There were just a few floors above him, and a helipad for hospital transports at the top. His signal would radiate for miles from here, near the top of the building. The Machine would have no trouble intercepting it.

Harold scraped the insulation from a wire, and attached a clip to it. Then, he left the small transceiver attached to the wire on a ledge, in plain sight. He would only need it for a short time. Just long enough for the Machine to find Greer or his people.

It looked like it was working, and Harold sat there, in the electrical closet on the 33rd floor, waiting for the Machine to contact him.

 **Memorial Hospital, SICU, December, 2014**

Fusco was standing just inside the doorway to the wing that housed the SICU and the visitor waiting rooms. There was a small chapel there, too, where quiet contemplation or prayers could be offered. He kept his voice lowered so he wouldn't disturb anyone inside.

Fusco was speaking with an Officer from the NYPD who'd come over to interview Marco's family. There had been a police presence there all day, but now things were winding down for the Officers who had come over to take statements. Reese and Shaw walked by while Fusco was talking, and the three had exchanged glances.

Reese stopped at the coffee station where visitors were allowed to help themselves, but Shaw had gone ahead to check in on Marco.

The family, except for Dee Dee, had already left for the evening, to rest and feed their kids. Dee Dee wanted to stay for a little longer, and then head back to her place. The super in Marco's apartment building had called her to say that most of the damage done to the door was repaired, and that the cleaning lady had come to make things right inside, once the police had finished their work.

But somehow, it didn't seem like the right place to go, even though she loved his apartment. Too many memories right now. And she didn't know if it would be safe to go back there. That's what her father had said. He wanted her to come out to his house, in Glen Cove, but that was a long trip, and she was already tired from everything.

She'd promised to let her Dad know when she got home, so he wouldn't worry. They'd all be back in the morning, anyway, to check on Marco. She was curled up on the chair next to his bed, with a shawl from her bag thrown over her shoulders. When she was tired, she always felt cold.

Shaw was walking down the hallway past the visitor waiting room, toward the door to the SICU. She heard someone call her name, and stopped. Root swung her head around the corner and smiled at her. She looked tired. Root walked to Sameen and gave her a little cursory hug.

Root could see her looking at the work that the plastic surgeon had done on her wounds. Sameen reached up and put her fingers on Root's chin, turning her face left and right to see the wounds. Somehow, that was the only time Sameen seemed interested in her – when there was something _medical_ to deal with. Not like Marco. She could spend all day just holding his hand or sleeping at his side! Root wished that Marco and his family were out of the picture. Too much of a distraction. She was done with this whole situation! Didn't Sameen know how much this hurt! To watch the two of them, together...

Footsteps approached the outer door to the SICU wing. Two women, walking quickly, like they had an agenda.

 **Memorial Hospital Electrical Closet #33B, Manhattan, December, 2014**

Harold was sitting there in the closet, and then a message in bold letters appeared on his cellphone screen.

 _ **Critical situation, SICU...**_ _ **Recom–**_

Harold read the words he was dreading, and he was prepared for what came next. The Machine started to send him its recommendation, but as soon as the word started to print on his screen, he stood up and shouted, "Do it!"

Then he abandoned the equipment he'd installed and rushed out, slamming the door behind him and heading for the elevator bank that would take him down to the SICU. He was limping as fast as his legs could take him.

In his mind, the image of the photos on his wall in the library office. Five of the six on the wall were here tonight: Marco Bruzzese, John Reese, Sameen Shaw, Detective Fusco, and then there was John Reese's ex-CIA partner, Kara Stanton.

Floors below, the door to the SICU wing flung wide open, and Detective Fusco began to look up, reacting to the force of the motion. The Officer he was facing saw it in his eyes, and started to turn around toward the door. The first shot rang out, and the Officer spun around and down to the floor. Then the next shot, and Fusco went down, next to the Officer.

By then, Shaw was starting to react, and had pulled her weapon, pushing Root back out of the way, into the Visitor's lounge, to the floor. Then there were more shots, too many to count, and people were screaming.

And the lights went out in the unit.


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45: before tonight (rated T); sparks from the ceiling (rated T)  
**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

For a long time there was just silence. Absolute silence. And then there was a sense of movement, slow, gentle, like in a boat adrift in gentle waters. It was his breathing. The steady rise and fall of his breath that lifted her like a boat in water. She was drowsy, eyes closed, resting back against his body, sitting up. A down comforter was pulled around them both, and there, across their room, doors that led to a private balcony. Too early to see anything yet. The sky was still dark, and stars still twinkled in the sky. But, soon, the dawn.

He had brought her here with him, smiling, whispering of the glorious sight from their window that awaited. And they had climbed the stairs to this private room at the top of the inn, the third floor, all to themselves.

He had hugged the woman at the counter downstairs, dear friend, her face framed in gray hair, but her eyes sparkling. They spoke in French, and then he turned to introduce Sameen. Warm embraces, soft hands on hers, and a knowing glance to Marco – her sparkling eyes were pleased. Then she had sent them up the stairs to their room.

He'd closed the door behind them and she could see the comfort of this room – like a quiet haven, a world away, on the coast of France. He watched her eyes, and smiled at her reaction. Perfect. Everything was perfect. So comfortable, simple, meant to touch and be touched. Soft velvet chairs, and puffy down comforter, white cotton sheets on a bed just for two. Old carved headboard, flowers in a vase. He watched her take it in, and smiled again.

A knock at the door, softly, and a phrase in French, lovely to the ear. Wine and a tray of food, welcome after all-day travel. He'd opened the wine, to let it breathe, then offered food. They nibbled, but there were other things on their minds. Unpacking could wait. Food could wait.

He was standing right in front of her, his eyes lifting to hers. And now the smile had gone, and something else there, in his eyes, instead. Dark eyes, like deep pools, long dark lashes, too. Long black hair, held neatly at the back with a band. There was something in his eyes tonight she'd never seen.

He reached to her face, that look in his eyes, touching her softly with his hands. His lips were on her face, and her head tipped back, soft sound escaping from her lips. She reached around him, and he stepped closer, touching, touching up against her with his body. So warm against her. She let him lead her as he wished. Slow was so much better, here, tonight.

He undressed her, and then himself, clothing in a trail to their bed. He'd spun her slowly, dropping clothing, spinning, spinning slowly. Then down on soft down, his hands on her, and hers on him. She let him lead her, eyes on eyes; slow and soft, soft and gentle with their hands.

And then his lips. On her neck, her ear, her cheek. But _not_ her lips. Not yet. He whispered near her ear. Stay here. He had a plan. He'd be right back. And he wrapped her body in soft down. She felt its warmth around her, and closed her eyes, listening for his footsteps in their room. Content to let him lead her, here, tonight.

She heard water running in the room next door, and then the sound of glasses, clinking. Wine, red wine splashing into glass, a scratching sound, the smell of matches, and then candle wax. The lights went low around her, and then his footsteps to her bed.

He unwrapped her. Kissed her.

Raised her from their bed.

Then she looked and saw the candles everywhere, and in their light, next door, clear water splashing. A white tub. Pristine old tiles laid in a pattern on their bathroom floor. He'd brought the tray and wine nearby, and fragrance from the water filled the air.

He led her to the bath, and helped her in, then stepped in behind her at the back. His arms circled her, hands warm as water, soft as water on her skin. He'd enfolded her, and leaned back, leaned her back against him, holding her. His breathing lifted her; up then down, raising her like a boat adrift on gentle waves.

Lilac. The water smelled of lilac, and its touch was soft on skin. He'd kissed her head, and bent it slowly down to kiss her neck, that soft sound from her lips again. He leaned her back against him, reached for their wine nearby. Rich and oak-y, deep red in the glass, and a swirl of cheese, creamy and cool on bites of cracker.

The wine and heated water made them blush, skin warming in its spell. He put down his glass, and then reached around her, hands on her, exploring. And now, a trace faster, more insistent. She'd turned to face him, and stretched out in fragrant water over him. Dark eyes, like deep pools, and long dark lashes in a fringe. In his eyes, that look she'd never seen, before tonight.

He'd slid his hand to her face, and gently pulled her to him. His lips were on her brow, then her cheek, and then, finally, her lips. She held him close, in fragrant water, skin to skin, and lips to lips.

And later, in candle light, in their bed, his long hair hanging down, long escaped from the band that kept it neatly at the back. All through the night, lips and hands, and skin on skin.

Until this moment.

With the sunlight rising, and birds encouraged, chirping softly through their window panes. He'd stirred beneath her, and leaned her forward in their bed. He'd wrapped them both in soft down, and kept her safe against him through the night.

As light came up, she could see it, the sight before them through their window. Long green lawn, craggy rocks falling over cliffs, and then the sound of ocean waves she'd heard all night. Deep blue waves crashing on the shore, on rocks, in early sunlight. Sea-spray lifting in the air, sparkling in a private cove. Golden sun rising in a gold-pink sky.

His arms circled her, her back against his chest, in bed, wrapped in down - both welcoming this glorious sight.

He watched her eyes.

And that look was in _his_ eyes –

that one that she had never seen –

before tonight.

 **Memorial Hospital SICU, December, 2014**

"Sameen?"

"Sameen?"

She could hear before anything else, and it was starting to make sense. She was remembering where she was, and who it was, calling her name. Root. Root was there with her. And then she was looking up and she could see sparks flying all around her from something in the ceiling. And there were voices, more voices, all around her. People were moving in the darkness, huddled together, speaking low, like they were trying to console one another.

She started to sit up, and Root helped her. Her chest was hurting, and getting up had made it worse. She reached for the painful place, and felt her vest, full of holes under her hand. Root was staring at her, concern in her eyes, and then Shaw tried to get up, but failed. She looked around in the darkness for the others, remembering now what had happened.

She'd been talking with Root in the hallway, just outside the door to the SICU, where Marco was. And then, behind her, she'd heard the outer door flying open; she'd started to turn. Two shots by the time she'd spun around, her gun in her hand. Martine and another woman she didn't know – Reese's Kara Stanton, for certain.

She'd hesitated just a moment, reaching out for Root – threw her to the floor, skidding her away from gunshots, hidden back behind a wall.

And then the first blast – hitting her vest, in the center of her chest. Kill shot. And another, and another, before she could return fire.

But then, sparks; she remembered sparks from the ceiling, going off like flashbulbs, brilliant, blinding. They couldn't see. The shooting stopped for a minute. Maybe more. She heard screaming, screaming in the background, and people running past her for the doors.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Reese, bent forward, gun pointed down to the floor, and elbows on his thighs. He was hit, too.

And she remembered Fusco, at the front, just inside the door. Down, too. Behind her, another voice, female, yelling "no!". Dee Dee, at the door, then through, and rushing past her toward the two with guns.

Shaw had just caught her shawl going by, and pulled it tight, spinning her, off-balance, to the floor. And then, Martine was taking aim. Shaw raised her gun, but there were too many innocents, if she missed. Only one thing to do. As Martine's gun came up, Shaw jumped in front of Dee Dee on the floor. And then the blast against her chest. And another. And another. And then the pain.

Harold was limping down the hallway, as fast as he could move. Ahead, the SICU wing, dark inside, and he could see people running through the doors, and inside, white sparks shooting from the ceiling, like dimming fireworks overhead. He could see bodies on the floor ahead. Blood pooling under one. He was too late.

He couldn't warn them in time. His Team was in there.

Enraged, he rushed forward to the door, pushing at the others rushing past. He had to find them, see if they'd survived.

The Machine had asked permission to intervene, and he'd agreed to _something –_ to whatever it could do to save them. He was looking in, around the crush of people running past, and he saw Detective Fusco on the floor a few feet ahead, and then further down, in the middle, Miss Shaw on the floor, crumpled like paper. And off to the right, John Reese, with his eyes on him, rushing his way. And last, a dark-haired woman, turning his way. Eyes meeting his, and a smile just crossing her face.

The crush of people was over, and the doors were wide open.

Straight shot for Harold.

He stopped, mid-step, and saw the look in Miss Stanton's eyes, hesitating for just a moment to savor it.

A blur from his right, shots, then more, then silence.

Harold stood there, unharmed.

As Kara Stanton had begun to fire, John was there, puffs of vest-dust erupting with each shot that he absorbed. Harold had no vest.

Shaw lifted her weapon toward Kara and Martine, leaning back against the girl beneath her, but her hand was shaky now, and if she missed, Harold was just beyond them.

Reese was down. Fusco was down. But then, Fusco moved. He had a better angle. He'd fired up from the floor, near their feet. Kara spun, Martine too.

Martine, bleeding, dragged Kara, bleeding, to the door. She looked at Harold but moved past, no gun, dragging Kara to the stairs.

To the helipad on the roof, where his bodyguards were loading Greer into the waiting chopper. Kara's rescue plan.

Martine called up there for help, and minutes later, all were safely on board, then taking off, inside, with Greer.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46: "I'll never leave you"; "let's not trash the place- "**

* * *

 **Please note** **: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1 there are suggested music pieces to accompany this and other Chapters to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them...**

It was empty. No people. No noisy kids running back and forth with the waves chasing. No attentive parents, watching. No smells of sunblock slathered on tender skin, or the lunch laid out on blankets in the sand.

He was standing there, on the dunes above the spot where he had been with her the last time. There ahead was the umbrella that had shaded them. He remembered how the wind had made the edges flap so hard when they were there with the kids. She had been leaning back in the beach chair, with him next to her in his own, and he remembered her smiling and laughing so much that day. She got a kick out of watching the kids down at the water's edge. They were playing tag with the water, running back and forth with the tide, and then, when they would look back to them, on the blanket, their smiles and white teeth beamed in the sunlight. It was the happiest time he could remember.

Joss's hand was there in his, his fingers longer and so he had interlaced them with hers. She was leaning back in her chair, and he could see the way the wind had tossed her hair, usually so neatly captured. But the wind had had its way with it, and the sun had streaked it lighter at the top during this long, lazy family beach vacation.

Something about the beach at this time of day. Nearly dusk. The light was a certain shade of blue-gray, and when he looked out over the water toward the horizon, it looked like the Earth was breathing. You could see the steady rise and fall of the water, immense, for as far as you could see. He loved coming down here at this time of day. He was usually the only one here.

"Want some company?"

He smiled, without looking up. He knew who it would be.

She walked up behind him, and put her hand on his shoulder. For a little bit, they were both looking out at the water, toward the horizon. Then, she grabbed his hand and interlaced her fingers in his.

"Let's walk," she said.

He could see her jump forward a little, down from the dune onto the beach sand. She was careful not to let his hand go, and she was facing him, up the little hill. He lowered himself carefully on the shifting sand.

"Still having trouble with that knee?" she said, frowning a small frown.

"It works," he said, eyes down to the sand.

They moved ahead together, walking toward the water. The tide was coming in and, soon, much of the beach would be covered up, and all the stones and shells and long, snakey seaweed would come in on the thrashing surf. They would find it there in the early morning, after the tide had gone out again, leaving the beach strewn with the fresh deposits.

"So – tell me – how are things goin' ?" she said, looking up to his eyes. But he hadn't looked at her, eye-to-eye, yet.

"Same-old," he said, letting her swing their arms a little as they walked.

"Really? You know, I have eyes, John." She smiled up at him, but he still didn't look at her.

"I'm really happy for you."

He was his usual non-verbal self. She would have to dig it out of him. She chuckled, and shook her head back and forth.

"I saw the two of you together in the diner, John. I think you chose well."

Still nothing.

Jeez, this was like her old days in the Army, in Iraq, when she was an interrogator. The heavy-handed stuff never really worked. She had always had more luck when she tried to reach out, human-to-human. People's emotions were funny things. Sometimes you thought you knew what people were thinking, or why they just did that crazy thing; but, you were wrong. Always better to clear the air.

"What I saw was two people – two people who need each other. You don't have to do all this alone, John."

She stopped, and moved in front of him, so he would have to stop, too. He still didn't look at her.

She reached up with her free hand and put her palm on the side of his face. All the rough spots from the glass cuts were still there, healing, in their own time. Without looking at her, he started speaking.

"I wanted – " and then he didn't go on.

"What? What, John?" she said, her voice as soft as a summer breeze on his skin.

"I wanted something else."

"Tell me."

He stood there for a minute, with his head down, and his shoulders hunching. And then he turned back toward where they had just come from, pointing to the beach umbrella stuck in the sand.

"I wanted what we had there. I wanted two kids, and a dog, and a house with a white picket fence, just like in the fairy tales, Joss."

She was nodding. Knowing.

And after a long moment, he took a deep breath. And then he looked up from the sand.

Into her eyes.

He thought that it was going to break his heart all over again, shatter him again, to see them. But, it didn't.

He was able to say it, then.

"I wanted you, Joss. – I – loved you." Tears were sliding down his face. And hers.

"I know, John. I was there," she whispered.

"I miss you."

He couldn't stand it any longer. He took her in his arms, his head pressed against hers, and tears falling freely.

For a long time they just held each other like that, the light slowly fading around them, and the surf coming up, sometimes, to their feet.

It was time to go back.

They drew back at the same time, looking into each other's eyes. Then, they kissed. Not passionately, not tragically, not with any sense of finality. Just a kiss until they saw each other once again.

And then, she looked up into his eyes.

"John, you know I'll never leave you."

 **Memorial Hospital SICU, Manhattan, December, 2014**

"John?"

"John?"

He could hear before anything else, and it was starting to make sense. He was remembering where he was, and who it was, calling his name. Harold. Harold was there with him. And then he was looking up and he could see sparks flying all around him from something in the ceiling. And there were voices, more voices, all around him. People were moving in the darkness, huddled together, speaking low, like they were trying to console one another.

He looked up and there was Fusco, behind Harold, looking down at him and shaking his head.

"At least I don't have to call 9-1-1 this time. You're already _in_ the hospital. Let's try not to trash the place, this time, huh?" But then, he looked around in the dark, with the sparks falling like dimming fireworks from the ceiling, and thought: too late...

The End of Pointillist.

Stay tuned for more of this story in P2 (Pointillist 2), coming soon.

Thank you for reading...


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